


The Bitterest Rime

by frankenberger



Series: Ballads for the White Wolf [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Badly written swordfighting training, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, But he really can be a dick when he wants to be, Ciri is a vicious little creature, Deviates From Canon, Drunken Jaskier, Drunken Shenanigans, Figging, Geralt is an expert cocksucker, Geralt is an idiot, Grandiose nudity, I know I shouldn't be painting Lambert as a villain, Jaskier is very cold, Kissing, M/M, Magic is afoot, Massage, Post-Season/Series 01, Prophetic Dreams, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sequel, Temporary Amnesia, This will get dark, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Vesemir is a grumpy old bastard, Warnings will be earned, bard in love, ever so ominous, filthy poetry, massage oil as lube
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23476660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenberger/pseuds/frankenberger
Summary: Geralt of Rivia, the bard Jaskier and Princess Cirilla of Cintra reach their final destination - the Witcher's Keep at Kaer Morhen. But something isn't quite right. As tightly as they close the doors, jealousy and doubt begin to creep in like the icy fingers of the winter frost.Something sinister is waiting in the frozen woods. The ghosts of the past come knocking. Can the happy family survive the forces that threaten to break them apart?This story follows on fromThe Kaedweni Trail.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Ballads for the White Wolf [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603636
Comments: 54
Kudos: 206





	1. Part One: The Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This story diverges from canon as of the end of Season 1 of The Witcher, so if I don't manage to get it finished before the next season (joking, I hope), you should know that this is where it veers off the tracks. 
> 
> I'm using a mish-mash of canon bits from the show, from the games and from the books. I hope I don't manage to butcher all of these points of reference.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Part One: The Rain**

It was raining hard by the time the riders reached the narrowest stretch of the river, a freezing and relentless storm that soaked them to the skin. Frostbitten hands gripped reins, urging the horses across the rapids despite the swift current and unstable footing of slime-coated rocks. Soon the banks would become impassable, swollen from the downpour. There was no time for caution, and Jaskier trusted Geralt’s knowledge of the trail well enough to follow him without hesitation. Geralt had probably crossed the Gwenllech hundreds of times at this very spot.

Their progress through the mountain pass was slow in this weather. The afternoon sun was almost completely blacked out by the clouds, and the narrow trail was slippery with mud. It led to a barren ravine between sheer cliffs of stark rock, a tunnel into the unknown. Geralt rode in the lead, his demeanor almost as icy as the rain. Ciri sat in the saddle in front of Jaskier, his cloak draped over her shoulders in a futile attempt to keep her dry. Even she was mostly quiet over the long hours of riding, her excitement at the journey finally giving way to a glum realization that she would have to get used to this miserably cold place. They hadn’t even reached Kaer Morhen yet, and that was likely to be a great deal worse. Who could make a cozy home in a place such as this?

Geralt led them into the valley beyond the ravine, a sweeping descent into a thick and ancient forest of gnarled and stunted trees punctuated by tall outcrops of sharp rocks. The ragged chunks of stone pointed into the grey sky like accusatory fingers cursing whatever gods were in charge of the weather, and Ciri didn't blame them. Once they reached the treeline, they could barely see a thing ahead of them. They had entered a veritable maze. The forest floor was choked with fallen leaves and broken branches that had been felled by hundreds of years of similar storms, and every step was taken with utmost care lest one of their horses break a leg in some crack or hollow.

Even here amongst the trees, everything was painted in shades of grey. Ciri began to wish she had stayed in the verdant majesty of Brokilon forest. Dryads were warriors too, and she would have learned to fire a bow and arrow. She would have been able to spend her days treading barefoot through the forest, singing out to her sisters in their melodious dialect and bathing in sparkling streams. She would have forgotten the sacking of Cintra, the death of everyone she loved. She would have forgotten about destiny, and she would have been wholly content.

“Do you think we can be happy here?” Ciri asked Jaskier, as he guided the horse around a tangled deadfall of broken branches and fallen trees.

“Here, in this soggy excuse for a forest? Not quite yet, little lion.” Jaskier smiled, but it was a little too tired and strained for Ciri’s comfort. “But at the castle, we will be safe. Geralt will teach you how to fight, and I will play with you every day. Now, doesn’t that sound nice?”

Ciri peered up at him, raindrops falling on her face. She had to admit that it did sound nice. It sounded almost like family, like a new home. “Don’t treat me like a child,” she said finally, in her best grown-up voice. “I don’t want you to play dolls with me like some infant. But I do like dice. And knucklebones. And cards. Do you know how to play gwent?”

Jaskier chuckled lightly. “I do, poppet. I get the feeling you’d take me for all I had, if only I’d the coin to wager.”

Ciri agreed with him, feeling quite merry for a few minutes until their conversation faltered once more, dampened down by the rain.

Soon, they arrived at the winding bed of an old stream, but rather than rounding the obstacle Geralt led them along the muddy banks. The air was full of the stench of silt and forest rot, amplified to a sickening miasma that made Ciri’s stomach churn. She shrank under the cover of Jaskier’s cloak, and the bard held her tighter against him, feeling her unease. “It won’t be long,” he murmured, his voice almost lost in the hiss of the rain. “We’ll be in front of a roaring fire, with a hot meal in our bellies.”

“Follow me,” Geralt called unexpectedly, surprising his companions. He hadn’t spoken to either of them all day, distracted by his own sullen thoughts. His horse had stopped before a large tree that had fallen across the gully many years ago, suspended low across the stream by the rocks on either side. It was some kind of signpost, to point out the trail for Witchers who passed this way. Geralt hunched low in the saddle, almost lying flat upon Roach’s back as he urged the horse forward under the mossy tree. Roach snorted grumpily at the command, but obeyed at a slow walk. Unable to shake a claustrophobic sense of impending doom, Ciri felt Jaskier bend low over her body so they could follow the Witcher into the darkness.

Ciri was too tired to feel anything but apprehension about how close they were getting to their destination, too cold to commit to memory the landmarks they passed on their way along the stream bed. Should she ever need to run from this place, she would be completely lost in minutes. There were boulders, some large enough that it seemed giants had brought them here. There were old conifer trees, wizened and leaning overhead. There was a rocky hillock, which they ascended into the clouds and the full brunt of the downpour.

And then, at the summit, she saw the castle. Or, more accurately, a ruin that was once a castle. The walls were reduced almost to rubble in parts, the fallen stones piled up to keep some semblance of the fortress it once was. As they approached, Ciri’s eyes cast around to detect some sign of life in the keep. All she spied was desolation and death. In the moat, at the furthest edge, there was a pile of human bones.

“What happened here?” She said, her voice quavering with revulsion.

Geralt looked back toward her, hearing her quiet words with ease despite the rain. “An attack, long ago before any of us were born. As far as I know, there’s only one Witcher alive who can remember it.” He snorted. “You’ll see him shortly, unless some monster has slain him since last we met.”

“He must be very old,” Ciri said, staring at the crumbling decay of the castle before them in an attempt to ignore the remains of the dead that littered the moat. “Will you ever get that old?”

Geralt grunted. “Unlikely. Vesemir’s like a cockroach, he’ll outlive all of us.” Smiling fondly, he inclined his head toward the drawbridge. “Come on, let’s get in out of the rain.”

With a trepidation that matched Ciri's own, Jaskier sighed and nudged the horse into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack! It has taken me a while to post the start of this story as I'm trying to keep a couple of chapters ahead, call it insurance. I'm a VERY slow writer.
> 
> This story will be about 26 chapters long (at this point) but I'll update on a regular basis.
> 
> I want to take a moment to appreciate the lovely readers who have read my stories so far. You are all amazing, beautiful people and I adore you. Hope you're all staying safe, staying home and washing your hands! A little bit of self-isolation love from me to you. <3
> 
> I don't post much fandom stuff, but if you're looking for more random crap on your timeline I can be found on Twitter at [@frankenberger](https://twitter.com/Frankenberger).


	2. Chapter 2

From the moment he lifted her from Jaskier’s saddle, Ciri clung to Geralt like a barnacle on the hull of a warship. Geralt’s good friend Eskel loomed before them in the storm-gloomy courtyard, terrifying her with his Witcher bulk and his scarred face. Rats skittered amongst the scattered stones of the ruined curtain wall, making her jump. She would get used to it, but this was a harsh place for a young princess. 

The dark-haired Witcher held out his hand and Geralt clasped it, finally feeling warmth against his frostbitten skin. “Welcome, Geralt.”

From the way Ciri shuddered beside him, Geralt was sure that Eskel’s presence was everything but welcome. He could understand her fear. Eskel’s voice tended to sound as sharp and menacing as his twin blades of steel and silver, and the long scar that curved along his cheek could be terrifying for those unused to such a violent disfigurement. But Geralt was used to it, feeling nothing but comfort in the other man’s presence. They had grown up together here in the Blue Mountains, a childhood spent in laughter, shared mischief and the inevitable punishment at Vesemir's hand. They had survived the Trial of the Grasses together, despite the odds. They were almost like brothers.

“Get inside before you all drown,” Eskel offered, his concern for their wellbeing overtaking his desire to catch up with his old friend. “I’ll take Roach and the other horse to somewhere dry.” 

Nodding, Geralt shepherded Ciri and Jaskier inside the keep as Eskel led their horses off to the stables.

Inside the hall, there were more Witchers waiting for them. Vesemir, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight, approached to greet the travelers. Geralt was pleased to see him, happy as always that the old man was still alive. He was old enough to have seen this castle built, and to have survived its sacking so many years ago. He was also the closest thing Geralt had to a father.

Geralt clasped the old man in a tight bear hug. “Greetings, Vesemir.”

“Greetings, Wolf.” Vesemir responded, stepping back with a chuckle. “I’d almost lost hope of seeing you this winter.”

Geralt shook his head. “How many are we?”

“Eskel and Lambert, thus far. And Coën, of the Griffin School. He’s off hunting up some dinner. But we’ve room for more at the table.” Vesemir peered down at Ciri, who was trying her best to hide in the folds of Geralt’s cloak. “And what do we have here?”

Ciri looked up at Geralt, her eyes full of fear. He reached down and grasped her hand, squeezing it comfortingly.

“Ciri, Sir Witcher,” she said finally.

Vesemir smiled at her. “No sirs here, young lady. Just Vesemir.”

“My child surprise,” Geralt offered.

“Well, well.” Vesemir grinned at the girl, but there was some concern in his eyes. “A budding young Witcher, if I ever saw one.”

Ciri opened her mouth again, but nothing more than a startled squeak came out. Vesemir, sensing she needed some space, turned to Jaskier.

“This is Jaskier,” said Geralt, noting that the troubadour looked almost as nervous as Ciri. He had planned to introduce the bard with his full name as a jest, but he feared it would make Jaskier even less comfortable.

Lambert, the youngest of the Wolf School, had approached while they were speaking. Tall and dark with an enduring look of distaste in every situation, he hadn’t changed a bit. He scowled at Jaskier and Geralt in turn. “You’ve brought us a little girl and a pretty boy? If I’d have known this was a party, I would have brought along some strumpets to warm my bed this winter.”

“I doubt you have coin for more than one, and she’d die of old age before spring,” Geralt teased him, earning a grunt and a firm handshake in response.

“Your fame has made you soft, Wolf.” Lambert growled, but there was a hint of fondness in his eyes. “Don’t come looking for a brawl. I’d wager I can knock you on your arse in thirty seconds flat.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Geralt replied. “When I’m aching from the saddle and you’re sober. Make it a fair fight, at least.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jaskier.” Vesemir said, turning his attention to the bard and shaking his hand with a strong grip.

“Thank you for your kind hospitality, Vesemir. I brought for you… Ah, for all of you, I brought some beer,” Jaskier stammered. “And wine from Toussaint. A brilliant vintage.”

Vesemir laughed, his wrinkled face lighting up pleasantly with merriment. “See that, Lambert? The boy has manners.”

Lambert bristled visibly at the suggestion that he had no manners of his own, and Jaskier looked flustered at being referred to as a boy by two Witchers in quick succession. Vesemir clapped the troubadour on the shoulder, comfortingly.

“You’re welcome here, bard.” He said. “I’ve heard much of you. Your talented fingers, and tongue.”

Jaskier’s mouth hung open and he blushed like a maiden in a whorehouse. “I’m not sure exactly - Uh, what? I mean, what has Geralt told you?”

“You’ve brought your lute, I trust?” Vesemir continued, flashing a brief smile in Geralt’s direction as he spoke. “Should you wish to sing us a tune or two in the evenings, you’ll have more than earned your keep.”

Jaskier glanced back at Geralt, still beet-red. “Certainly,” he said, although his voice was high and wavering. “I’d be glad to play for you.”

“I should take Ciri to her room,” Geralt said, putting the embarrassed bard out of his misery. They were all still soaking wet, their clothes dripping on the flagstones. Beside him, he could feel the girl shivering. 

“We will need to talk, Wolf.” Vesemir said to him, but he was staring at the child with her long, tangled and wet hair. “Perhaps later, once you have gotten situated. There is a room ready across the hall from your own, but you’ll have to change the sheets. It’s been a long while since we housed a young one here.”

“Thank you, Vesemir.” Geralt replied politely. “Lambert, show Jaskier to the guest room in the tower, would you? I’ll let you throw the first punch next time we spar.”

Lambert grunted, but acceded to the request. He turned off and started walking, motioning for the wet and disheveled bard to follow him. Jaskier hesitated, glancing back at Geralt before following Lambert out of the room.

Ciri was Geralt’s priority for the moment, as it would hardly do to let her freeze to death on the first day. From the sour look he had seen on Jaskier’s face, Geralt knew he’d be paying for this later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm done with all the introductory bits now. The smut will commence shortly. :D


	3. Chapter 3

Vesemir had been right about the state of Ciri’s new room. Even though some effort had been made to keep it habitable, a thick cloud of dust still billowed through the stagnant air as Geralt replaced the moth-eaten sheets with a fresher set. Ciri stood silent and timid by the doorway as Geralt rummaged through a trunk at the foot of the bed. He was trying to find some clothes for her, and eventually settled on an outfit that would come close to fitting her if she rolled the sleeves and trousers up. He waited outside as she dressed, and after a long and anxious wait she emerged. 

“Do I look like a Witcher now?” She asked shyly, combing out her damp hair with her fingers. Geralt hummed in agreement, although they would need to find something more appropriate for the longer term. The greying linen of the old shirt swam on her tiny frame, and the trousers were as loose as the fabric of a tent, but at least she was dry. Settling a blanket around her shoulders, he took her back to the great hall and seated her by the fire with a bowl of broth to drive away the chill.

Before long, she looked almost human again. While Geralt sat over at the long communal table and spoke quietly to Vesemir about her situation, she seemed content to stare into the flames, humming some tune to herself as the logs crackled and spat sparks into the chimney.

“I’m not sure this is the place for a girl,” Vesemir concluded. “But you’re free to prove me wrong. At least she’ll be safe here through the winter. If she wants to learn to defend herself, we’ll teach her.”

“Thank you, Vesemir.” Geralt glanced up to see how Ciri was doing, and was surprised to see a smile on her face. Returned from his hunt, the young Griffin named Coën was sitting by the hearth with Ciri. Prompted by some topic of light discussion, she was launching into the tale of when she and Jaskier had encountered an eldritch crone in the woods. Coën was clearly quite fond of the girl already, laughing heartily when she tried to imitate the voices of the bard and the old woman. “I think she’ll do just fine here.”

Vesemir nodded. “I’ll go cook her up something more filling than broth, shall I? Leave us be, you’ve got another visitor to check on.”

Geralt agreed, knowing that he had some bridges to mend with Jaskier. He left his child surprise to bond with her new companions, and made his way to the tower stairs.

Witchers learned early in their training to be less than discerning about their surroundings, to forgo comforts the average human expected. They needed a degree of toughness to venture through swamps or sewers without disgust, to sleep whenever and wherever there was an opportunity. Even here at home, their own beds were narrow and hard, fashioned of planks nailed together. Their quarters were decorated only with the furry or scaly trophies of their kills. They lived a hard life, but they believed in hospitality. A special room was always kept ready for the guests of Kaer Morhen.

The tower room had a real bed, old but wide. Softer than a rock, if barely. The room had candles, more than anywhere else in the keep. Humans couldn’t see in near or total darkness, so the tower room could light up like a beacon in the dark sky to make them feel safe. As Geralt entered the room, he saw that most of the candles were unlit. One candelabra with three flickering flames was all that illuminated Jaskier’s bare back as he bent over the table, washing off the dirt and sweat of the road over a large bowl of water.

He had stripped off his damp clothes, keeping only his loose linen drawers as a shield against the cold. Still, he shivered. The water he bathed in was frigid, rainwater collected on the room’s small balcony. His skin was deathly pale, and Geralt could hear his erratic pulse as loud as the ticking of a clock.

Jaskier paused as he heard Geralt enter, rivulets of cold water streaming down from his shoulders. Raising a damp cloth, he began to scrub at his arms. “We’ve been in the rain all day but I still feel the filth clinging to me,” he said suddenly, without turning. “So strange. What could possibly make me feel so dirty?”

Geralt scowled. “Fuck.” He had never been good at the intricacies of relationships, but this was no excuse for his mistake. He shouldn’t have sent Jaskier away with Lambert, even if he knew the gruff Witcher meant no real harm. Geralt approached slowly, making sure his footfalls were audible. “Lambert is a dick,” he offered.

“Must run in the family,” Jaskier remarked, the muscles in his back flexing as he scrubbed at his neck with his washcloth. “Really, Geralt. I’ve put up with worse abuse, from the jilted husbands of a hundred lonely women. I admit I didn’t expect your Witcher buddies to liken me to a harlot, but nor do I expect you to defend my honour.”

Geralt placed a hand gently on Jaskier’s bicep, feeling the bard grow tense at the contact. Geralt wished Jaskier could see the contrition in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I was angry at Lambert, briefly. But he wasn’t the one who cast me away at the first opportunity.” Jaskier sighed, slumping slightly. “I just thought… You know what? Never mind.”

It was clear that their arrival at the Keep wasn’t all that Jaskier had imagined. He should have lifted the bard into his arms, carried him to the bedchamber and made passionate love to him all night, but practicality had a way of shattering such romantic visions. “I thought you might want to warm up while I dealt with Ciri,” Geralt explained, knowing that his justification was meaningless. “I was wrong to leave you alone.”

Jaskier made a small, distasteful noise. He shifted slightly, as if considering whether to pull away from the warmth of Geralt’s touch. “Stop treating me like some fragile flower with easily bruised petals. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Don’t worry, I can deal with this dismal place somehow. I can even make friends with your rude compatriots.”

“Good,” Geralt said, feeling some relief that his stupidity hadn’t yet destroyed one of the few good things in his life. “If it helps, Lambert’s caustic tongue is usually reserved for people he likes.”

Jaskier tossed his washcloth into the bowl of water. “Maybe I should flirt with him, then,” he said. His tone was unreadable. “A bit of variety, to while away the long months.”

“With all due respect, if Lambert so much as touched you I’d beat him within an inch of his life. Witcher or not.” Geralt’s grip tightened, and he spun the bard around to face him. There was a half-smile on Jaskier’s face, unsure but perceptible.

“The White Wolf doesn’t like to share his toys?” Jaskier teased.

Geralt released Jaskier’s arm, his hand trailing down the bard’s damp skin. He was as cold as a sculpture of a god chiseled in ice, and just as magnificent. “The White Wolf doesn’t play games,” he replied, leaning in for a kiss.

Jaskier tilted his head away to deflect the Witcher’s advances. “Bollocks,” he said. “I know how fond you are of a gamble. Cards, dice…”

“Races, fistfights,” Geralt conceded. “But never hearts.”

Jaskier’s lips curved upwards, the edges of his eyes crinkling. “You’re a true bloody romantic, Geralt of Rivia.” He shivered as Geralt’s hand roamed down his back, tracing the path of his spine.

“You’re cold,” Geralt remarked.

“Why, thank you. I learned it from you,” Jaskier said with heavy sarcasm, but as Geralt studied him it became obvious how blue his lips were growing, how much his body was shaking. “Maybe we should go and sit by the fire, so your brothers can admire just how pretty I am.”

“I have a better idea,” Geralt suggested. “Let’s stay here for a while. I’d like to show you how sorry I am for being an idiot.” 

The witcher backed away slightly to remove his shirt and his trousers, tossing the still-damp clothing onto the floorboards. He gave Jaskier a languid smile.

“So your penance is to freeze to death while I watch?” Jaskier furrowed his brow, feigning ignorance of what was being offered. “A good plan.”

Geralt motioned toward the bed behind him, shaded under its canopy of fading tapestry. “Look, I’ll have you know I’ve got quite a reputation as a bedwarmer.”

Jaskier took another cloth from the table and started drying off his face and upper body, clearly in no hurry. “You’ve got a reputation as a man who falls asleep right after a fuck, and refuses to be dragged from the bed. Not exactly the same thing.”

Geralt shrugged, acknowledging the truth of it. “Hmm. I am warm though.”

“Hot,” Jaskier agreed, tossing the cloth in Geralt’s face to punctuate his words. “Scorching.”

Geralt had always considered himself a patient man, but his patience was wearing as thin as the linen braies that barely kept his erection in check. “Get in the fucking bed, Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughed. “Or what?”

Geralt growled deep in his throat, and lunged toward the bard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way I figure it, Jaskier's spent a lot of time enduring verbal abuse and threats from the husbands of all the women he's ploughed. That boy has been around the block a couple of times. But he's also a big old drama queen, so there's no way he'd let this go without milking it for all it's worth.
> 
> Anyway, enough with the angst. Let's have some sexytimes!


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier had expected Geralt to give him some confused and half-hearted apology for his behavior, the type that made it clear he didn’t understand why he was apologizing. If his amends involved nudity of some kind, it would have been good enough. Even the promise of nudity at some point. Jaskier wasn’t fussy.

As Geralt grasped him firmly by the buttocks and lifted him up, he was aware that he had underestimated the Witcher once again. Perhaps this evening could be salvaged after all.

Jaskier’s legs wrapped reflexively around Geralt’s waist as he was hoisted skyward, uttering a burst of excited laughter at the pure giddy shock of it. The Witcher showed no effort on his face as he carried Jaskier across the room, maintaining his ridiculous scowl even as the movement caused his bulging manhood to rub against the bard’s groin. 

Jaskier was airborne, and landed on the bed so hard it knocked the air from his lungs. The bed frame creaked loudly in protest at the impact.

“I warned you,” Geralt said, a hint of menace creeping into his voice.

“Aww, there’s that scary face again,” Jaskier replied, chuckling as he stretched out on the bedspread. “If your eyebrows got any angrier they’d chew their way off your face like carnivorous caterpillars. You don’t intimidate me, Geralt.”

“Get under the blanket, Jaskier.” Geralt peeled off his braies as Jaskier watched him with parted lips. Rigid with anticipation. This was a sight he had hungered for since they had left Novigrad, throughout those long weeks of riding across the continent.

The yellowing linen, already damp with pre-cum, fell to the floor. The Witcher was standing there before the bard in all his naked glory, his impressive cock standing at full mast despite the chill in the room. It had a gentle upward curve, and a pronounced vein on the underside. It twitched slightly as he glared down at the bard.

“As heavy and broad as a Skellige blade,” whispered Jaskier, committing the words to memory. They would be a worthy addition to his latest bawdy tune. “As tall as their warships prepared for a raid.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed even further. “Are you writing a song about my prick?”

“For my own enjoyment,” Jaskier responded. “Maybe I’ll sing it for you sometime.”

Geralt lifted the heavy coverings off the corner of the bed, waiting for Jaskier to crawl inside. The bard complied, awkwardly burrowing underneath the blankets. He was frightfully cold, despite his protests. He could barely feel his feet.

When Geralt followed him into bed, Jaskier wedged one cold foot between Geralt’s warm legs, delighted to hear a surprised hiss from the man behind him. Geralt wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s waist, pulling them tightly together.

Despite the moment of icy sting as Geralt’s Wolf School medallion rested between his shoulder blades, Jaskier relaxed, little by little. He settled back against the heat of Geralt’s body, but he didn’t close his eyes. It was definitely nice, and he wasn’t complaining. But he’d hoped for something more than a cuddle buddy once they reached the keep. “I hate to say it,” he said eventually. “But it’s barely evening, and I couldn’t possibly sleep. So what now, are you going to tuck me in? Sing me a lullaby?”

Geralt kissed Jaskier on the nape of his neck, where his skin was still icy and moist. “If you want to bed a minstrel, you’d best just go fuck yourself.”

“Such a charmer.”

“I have other talents,” Geralt offered, disengaging himself from Jaskier’s body. With another brief kiss on the bard’s shoulder, Geralt rolled the younger man onto his back and disappeared under the blankets.

“I wonder what those talents might - oh!”

Jaskier gasped as the beast beneath the bedclothes tugged down his drawers, and a warm wet mouth engulfed his cock. He wasn’t quite hard yet thanks to the cold, but a few moments of the Witcher’s ministrations coaxed the embers in his loins into flame.

“Bravo, maestro. You really have a gift,” Jaskier said, choking on his words almost as much as the Witcher was choking on his growing tumescence. “Such a shame you won’t perform for an audience.” He pulled the blankets aside to reveal the show. 

It was beyond words, to see Geralt suck his cock with such evident pleasure. The dappled candlelight across his pale skin. The way his silver hair, loose and tangled, fell about his face. He was wanton, shameless and proud. He met Jaskier’s eye, and the bard uttered an ineloquent groan of delight. The fire behind Geralt’s darkened gaze was indescribable. Jaskier wished he could live in this perfect moment intimacy forever, drown in it.

Geralt grasped Jaskier by the hilt, pulling back to speak. “Under the blankets, Jaskier.”

“Fuck the blankets, I need to see you.” Jaskier was rewarded with the return of those talented lips to his throbbing member. He tilted his hips, thrusting deeper into Geralt’s mouth as his fingers wound into the Witcher’s hair. “I’d rather freeze to death than be denied this sight.”

Geralt pressed Jaskier’s hips down onto the bed, a clear warning that he was in charge of the pace. Another game. Jaskier wouldn’t be satisfied until Geralt wished it, and that was just fine. Jaskier allowed his grip on Geralt’s hair to slacken, combing through the white tresses gently as the Witcher bobbed up and down, sucking and licking in a slow and steady rhythm.

Suddenly, Geralt eased back Jaskier’s foreskin and swirled his tongue around the exposed tip, teasing lightly the frenulum in a way that made the bard cry out. Chuckling at the sounds he was producing, the Witcher cupped Jaskier’s scrotum, tugging on the sensitive sack. Jaskier’s cock was dripping with saliva, shining and obscene. Geralt began to stroke the slippery length, lowering his head to take each ball in his mouth in turn, sucking and laving with his tongue in turns. Jaskier’s sighs and groans only grew in volume as he ascended toward the pinnacle of his pleasure.

“Geralt, please.” Jaskier’s voice was strained, a mere whimper.

Geralt smiled, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on the bard. He grasped Jaskier’s cock firmly and swallowed it down again and again, moaning around the girth as he took it deeper and faster. Jaskier began to pump his hips off the bed once more, surrendering to the joy of fucking Geralt’s mouth with abandon. He could feel the head of his cock began to hit the back of the Witcher’s throat with every thrust. It was a real novelty to have a lover so apt at holding his breath, as any normal man or woman would be struggling for air in this position. 

He was close, so close.

“Geralt…” Jaskier mumbled in warning.

Geralt hummed, licking up the shaft of Jaskier’s cock before closing his lips over just the head and swallowing with a firm and excruciating suction.

Jaskier gave a final cry as he came into Geralt’s mouth, his whole body shaking with every aftershock the Witcher coaxed from his body. Geralt swallowed every spurt of Jaskier’s seed, the muscles of his throat contracting rhythmically around the bard’s tender shaft. Eventually, Jaskier was forced to grasp Geralt by the hair and drag him away, sobbing with the pleasure that verged on pain.

Geralt kissed him, and Jaskier could taste his own spend on the Witcher’s lips. He was far from minding. Bright spots danced behind his eyelids as they fluttered, and he felt a heavy drowsiness spread over his body. He was warm, at last.

Limp and boneless, he allowed Geralt to pull him close once more. To rest against firm pectoral muscles, lightly fuzzed with soft hair that tickled against his back. Geralt’s prodigious prick wedged against the curve of his bottom, still untamed.

“What about you?” Jaskier asked, although speaking was almost too much of an effort as he drifted off into unconsciousness.

Geralt hummed. “We have all the time in the world, Jaskier. Shut up, and go to sleep.”

It was a command that was hard to refuse, and Jaskier was halfway to dreams before Geralt had even finished speaking. He sank into slumber, a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Om nom nom. :P
> 
> Nice that these boys finally got some alone time. I can only imagine what another Witcher would think if they happen to hear Jaskier's occasional cries echoing down the tower stairs. Maybe they think a fight is going on? It would be funny if they burst into the guest room with their swords drawn. :D
> 
> Here's hoping they've already put Ciri to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

The senses of a Witcher were so finely attuned that when Geralt sensed danger he could awaken in a moment, jolting himself from the deepest sleep into a state of alert as sharp as a finely-honed blade of meteorite steel. On the safer days, however, his journey into consciousness was more akin to wading through the mire of a swamp.

He was dreaming of war as he often did, hearing the shouts and distinctive rings of blades clashing on an open field. Smelling the noxious battleground tang of blood and fear. As the dream began to fade, before he knew who or where he was, he became aware of the body clutched against him like a childhood stuffed toy. Their legs were entwined, tangled comfortably together. A firm, round arse nestled against his soft manhood, skin against skin. A slow heartbeat that echoed through his body, and the steady rise and fall of breathing that was synchronised with his own.

As the Witcher began to rouse, the body in front of him shifted slightly, as if trying to burrow deeper into the warmth of their embrace. Geralt prised his eyes open with great effort. All he could see as his vision cleared was the puffs of chestnut hair against his face, tangled and tousled with sleep. The man in his arms hummed contentedly, grinding against him in the midst of some pleasant dream.

Then, as if sensing the quickening of Geralt’s heartbeat or the slight stiffening of his cock at the friction, Jaskier woke.

“You’re still here,” he said, his voice husky and low. “Don’t you have a bed of your own?”

Geralt nuzzled against Jaskier’s soft hair, luxuriating in the warm scent of him. “Prefer this bed, when you’re in it. I got up for a while, but just to put Ciri to bed. I couldn’t be away for long.”

Jaskier laughed, a low vibration that thrummed against Geralt’s chest. “I knew it. I’ve finally bewitched you with my melodious snoring.”

“A siren’s song,” Geralt agreed.

Jaskier rolled over onto his back, wincing at the change of position. “Oof.”

Geralt didn’t need to be able to read minds to know what was going on. He’d experienced it before, in his younger days. “A little stiff?”

“Cheeky.” Jaskier grimaced at him. “I’ll have you know it happens a lot to men when they first wake up.”

Geralt’s eyes darted down to the small tent that Jaskier’s half-erect cock made in the blankets, but only for a moment. “You’ve slept in a real bed after weeks on horseback, Jaskier. All your muscles must be seizing up. I’m amazed you can move at all.”

Jaskier huffed out a short breath. “Okay, yes. Everything hurts. Are you happy?”

Geralt grunted. “No.” It would be hard enough to make the other Witchers accept Jaskier, even if he didn’t spend his whole day complaining about being sore.

Jaskier’s lip quivered, and he looked ready to launch into one of his familiar bouts of whinging. Geralt sighed. “Roll over, bard.”

Geralt flung the bedclothes aside, exposing the both of them to the early morning chill. Jaskier whimpered once, only briefly, then turned onto his belly with exaggerated effort. But the Witcher wasn’t there to comfort him. He’d already strode off across the room, stretching the ache out of his own muscles as he started to rummage through the small glass bottles arrayed on the tabletop. Lifting one, reading the scrawled label on another. Opening yet another, sniffing at the contents.

This was the one. He placed the cork down on the table, returning to the bed with the bottle of herbal-scented oil.

Jaskier was watching him as he approached, his head turned to the side as he lay spread-eagled on the bed. His nose wrinkled as he smelled the sharp and pleasant odor of the unguent. “What’s that?”

“Sweet oil,” Geralt replied. “Marybud, zingiber, and chamomile.”

“Chamomile?” Jaskier waggled his eyebrows, a gesture that looked distinctly odd with his face squished sideways on the pillow. “Going to get handsy, Geralt? Give me a good old rub-down, eh?”

Geralt sighed as he climbed over Jaskier’s body, kneeling on either side of his outstretched legs. He upended the bottle over the bard’s back, allowing the oil to splash and pool in the hollow of his spine. The oil swiftly warmed as Geralt spread it across Jaskier’s soft skin, kneading at the tight muscles of his lower back. 

“Ooh, that’s different.” Jaskier wriggled underneath him, feeling the effects of the zingiber as it started to heat on his skin. “Tingly. Geralt, what is this stuff?”

“Zingiber, from the rainforests deep in Zerrikania,” Geralt replied, as he dragged his thumbs up either side of Jaskier’s spine. “It draws heat, improves the circulation of blood. Is it painful?”

“No, it’s…” Jaskier’s voice trailed off into a moan of satisfaction as Geralt’s thumbs found a particular sore spot and dug in, applying firm pressure. “Painful. Yes. In a good way.”

As the heat seeped into the bard’s muscles, Geralt could feel him beginning to relax. He eased out a final knot in the sacral region and moved on to Jaskier’s buttocks.

Jaskier made a small noise indicating his enjoyment at the change of scenery. “I should let you know something about the establishments where I usually receive this kind of attention,” he said, his voice sounding dreamy and distracted.

“I can guess,” Geralt said, with a grin. He continued to massage the soft skin. He truly enjoyed this part of Jaskier’s anatomy. Where his skin was the plushest, adorned with soft fuzz. He was halfway tempted to lean down and take a bite, expecting sweet juices to burst upon his tongue.

“It’s just, at that sort of place I usually get a happy ending. For my troubles.”

“Because getting a massage is so onerous?” Geralt asked, allowing his questing thumbs to delve down into the valley between Jaskier’s downy hills, knowing how the potent oil would warm and arouse this sensitive region.

“You’re going to make me beg for it, aren’t you?” Jaskier’s body shuddered as he began to feel the creeping warmth of the zingiber spread down the cleft of his arse. “Look, a very rude and foul-smelling chap once told me that I was like ordering a pie only to discover it has no filling.”

Geralt smiled as he kneaded at the muscles of the bard’s upper thighs. “I was talking about your music, but do go on.”

“I am my music, Geralt.” Jaskier hissed from between his clenched teeth. He looked as if he were starting to sweat, despite the temperature in the room. He squirmed slightly, clearly having difficulty being pressed flat to the bed with a raging erection.

Geralt hummed, cupping Jaskier’s cheeks and squeezing. “Is there a point to this?”

Jaskier gave a noise of irritation. “I am merely suggesting that perhaps, if there were a pie here that needed filling, perhaps a charitable gent such as yourself could do the pie a favour. And, well, fill it.”

Geralt chuckled. He was fond of the bard’s awkward manner of talking himself into a corner. He remembered a time when he found it irritating, but experience had proven it to be one of Jaskier’s most endearing traits. For a man so accustomed to pursuits of the bedroom, he could be very shy about expressing his desires.

“I’m the pie, Geralt.” Jaskier said, his voice pained. “Do I need to spell it out further?”

“Oh, I know what you’re asking.” Geralt rested back on his knees, idly stroking his own cock with the medicinal oil. He enjoyed the tingling and warming sensation, and had been planning to indulge, even if it was in a solitary fashion, once the massage was over. The very sight of Jaskier’s oil-slick and flushed buttocks waggling in front of him would be enough to push him over the edge. But the bard wanted to play. How could he say no? “The oil will be very warm, inside.” He said. “Burning, even.”

Jaskier exhaled loudly, exasperated. “Is it dangerous?”

Geralt knew from experience that this mild ointment, while warming, was nothing compared to the ecstatic pain of a freshly-peeled zingiber root in the rear passage. Yennefer, with her extensive herbal knowledge and occasional sadistic flights of fancy, had tried it on him once. He had climaxed so hard he almost passed out, as he recalled. “No, just hot. Some people enjoy it.”

“I beg of you, Geralt.” Jaskier tried to raise his arse into the air, a futile effort as the Witcher was kneeling on his legs. “Slather that enormous prick of yours with that amazing stuff, and let’s see if I’m one of those people.”

Geralt didn’t need any more prompting. He crushed Jaskier to the bed, parting his slippery cheeks as best he could with equally slippery hands, and pushed inside him with a single firm thrust.

The Witcher grunted, savouring the tight wetness of being enveloped. Lost in the heat of the oil, the heat of Jaskier. He stilled, pressing their bodies together. His lips tickled against the bard’s ear as the man below him panted and muttered curses. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathed.

“Never enough,” Jaskier moaned, sweat trickling down his forehead. “I need more.”

Geralt eased back before thrusting again, but it wasn’t deep enough. The position wasn’t right. He tried to grasp Jaskier’s hips for leverage, but his fingers fumbled without purchase on the slippery skin.

“I can’t…” Geralt pulled out, causing Jaskier to loudly bemoan the loss. “Turn over, I want to see you.”

With a wince at his still-aching back, Jaskier scrambled from between Geralt’s legs and flipped over on the bed. Geralt grasped his knees and lifted them into the air, watching with immense satisfaction as Jaskier’s puffy, puckered entrance swallowed him whole.

The slide of his cock was slick and effortless, and the expression on Jaskier’s face was one of unadulterated joy. It was easier, in this position, to pick up a swift and steady rhythm. Geralt was mesmerized by the way Jaskier’s body opened up to him without resistance or hesitation. The room, already fragrant with the smell of sex and exotic zingiber, became filled with the noises of their coupling. Jaskier’s small cries and moans, unmuffled by the silken pillows. The wet slaps of their bodies colliding, and the harsh echoes of their breathing as they each became more desperate. Two heartbeats, racing each other to the pinnacle. 

“F-fuck, Geralt.” Jaskier’s face, flushed and damp, stared up at him with a mixture of longing and awe.

Jaskier’s cock was bobbing against his belly, oozing pre-come in a puddle that trickled across his belly. Geralt lifted Jaskier’s legs over his shoulders, feeling the stiff tension in his calves as the pleasure built. Hands now free, the Witcher took hold of the bard’s member and began to tease lightly at the tip as he continued to thrust. He could tell from the glazed and overwhelmed look in Jaskier’s eyes that the man was close. Perhaps they could reach their climax together, if he timed his strokes just right.

“Jaskier, I’m going to come.”

“Me too,” Jaskier panted, although Geralt could already tell by the swiftness of his pulse, the dilation of his pupils. “Do it, Geralt.”

Geralt tugged once more on Jaskier’s throbbing prick, feeling the hot sticky seed spill over his hand as he collapsed. His body shook as he spent himself deep inside the bard in rolling, shuddering bursts.

The moment stretched into infinity, and Geralt only became aware that it was over when Jaskier thumped him soundly on the shoulder. “Get off me,” he said, his voice weary. “You’re as heavy as a rock troll, and I can’t breathe.”

Geralt crawled up Jaskier’s body, planting a resounding kiss upon his lips. Satisfied, he rolled sideways onto the bed.

“I suppose we have to get out of bed, eventually.” Jaskier said finally. 

Geralt grunted, acutely aware of the contrast between the cold air of the room and the still-tingling burn of the warming oil on the lower part of his torso. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“Oh, yes we are.” Jaskier lifted himself up, humming appreciatively at the burn in his nether regions. He slapped Geralt on the bare skin of his chest, a stinging reproof. “Get up, you great oaf.”

Geralt scoffed, his eyelids fluttering. “Give me a minute.”

Despite his shaking legs, Jaskier had managed to stand. He tossed a pillow at the Witcher’s head, a broad smirk on his face. “You have to train Ciri, remember? And I have to make friends with some grumpy Witchers. How long does it take before this… What’d you call it? Zingiber? How long til it wears off?”

“Half an hour, or thereabouts.” Geralt responded, scowling. “Just a quick nap, then we can get up.”

Jaskier, who had already made his way around the bed, crouched beside Geralt’s prone form and planted a swift kiss on his cheek. “You know, this is the first time I’ve been the one receiving a tip after a massage. Substantially more than a tip, in fact.”

Geralt reached out for the bard. But Jaskier had already sauntered off across the room, his firm pink buttocks goose-pimpled by the morning air. The Witcher smiled, feeling his eyes close as he drifted off into a post-coital stupor.

“Get up!” Jaskier shouted suddenly, tossing a wet, cold cloth onto Geralt’s face and shocking him back into consciousness.

“Right, that’s it.” Geralt launched himself from the bed, flinging the sodden rag away and giving chase after the naked, shrieking bard.

The sounds of their scuffling echoed through the room, slipping underneath the door and careening down the tower stairs. What the other Witchers would think of the hubbub, Geralt neither knew nor cared.

It was the best time he’d had in many years, and nobody was going to ruin it for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided I wanted to spice up (haha) the massage oil a little so I added some zingiber - otherwise known as ginger. I thought this other name sounded more witcher-y. Might be bending the show canon a bit, but I decided that the rainforests of Zerrikania host a wide variety of flora not seen anywhere else, so where better to grow these spicy bois?
> 
> Hope you're enjoying the story so far. This chapter has taken me a little while due to self-isolation woes but I promise to spend less time playing video games and more time writing.


	6. Chapter 6

It was a beautiful day, comparatively speaking. To be fair, in the shade it was almost cold enough to freeze the bollocks off an ox, but in the sunshine it was almost bearable. At least it wasn’t raining, and the first snows of the winter hadn’t begun to fall. A wonderful morning to summon up a song and let it drift down the valley. Jaskier readied his lute and strummed an opening chord.

“Ew.” He grimaced at the discordant twang that issued from the delicate elven instrument. The damn thing was out of tune. He began the laborious process of adjusting the tuning pegs, cursing the long and bumpy journey that had disrupted the fragile harmony of his most prized possession.

The bard’s legs swung freely in the bracing air, dangling from the edge of the ruined curtain wall on which he sat. He had chosen a good spot for solitary meditations. The view before him was a broad panorama of forest, rugged mountain peaks and screeching hawks that wheeled over the trees. He had never spent a winter in such a place. He hoped it would be a winter of inspiration, of great artistic genius. And sex. Filthy sex, in every imaginable position.

Jaskier hummed to himself, his mind recalling in perfect clarity the way Geralt had looked before he had left the room. His first day of waving wooden swords around with Ciri had not even begun, but he looked exhausted. His silver hair had been tangled and loose upon the pillow, his bare skin sparkling with sweat. His lips had been curled into a smile as he dozed, thoroughly fucked out and satiated. His glorious cock managed to dazzle Jaskier with its magnificence even as it rested dormant between his thighs.

Jaskier cleared his throat, and smiled as a perfect stream of notes cascaded from his fingertips. He began to sing, allowing his voice to ring out clear and true as he launched into the first verse of his latest masterpiece. “ _He has silver for monsters, and steel for the rest. But the Witcher’s third sword is his mightiest._ ”

He would never sing this song for anyone else. Geralt would run him through with one of his more pointy swords, and throw him in the nearest ravine. But Jaskier would never let a drop of inspiration be wasted, lest the entire well run dry. If this was where his muses led, he would follow.

“ _He unsheathes it night,_ ” he continued, “ _And sometimes at dawn. But we fall to our knees when his weapon is drawn._ ”

Jaskier heard a quiet scuffling behind him and turned, his face turning beet-red with the realisation that he was being observed.

“A Witcher only has two swords,” the large man with the scarred face remarked. His voice was gruff and rasping. Almost metallic, like a blade dragging across stone. But he wore a smile that marked his words as pure, friendly curiosity.

“Morning. Ah… Eskel, is it?” Jaskier said, hoping the flush in his cheeks would dissipate before the other man noticed. “It’s supposed to be a metaphor, of sorts.”

“A prick.” The second voice came from Jaskier’s right, behind a crumbling pile of stones. Lambert stepped out of the shadows, a sneer on his face. He could have been talking about the song, but his expression made it equally likely he was choosing to greet the bard with an insult.

Jaskier frowned at Lambert, but the Witcher ignored him. He continued to speak, aiming his words at Eskel. “He’s singing about pricks, you idiot. A Witcher’s third sword is the one he carries between his legs.”

“Ah,” Jaskier said in a small voice. “Well done, you.”

Lambert chuckled. “Feel free to spread the word, bard. Although, between you and me, not all of us are as uncommonly gifted as your flowery words make it seem. Am I right, Eskel?”

Eskel clambered up the wall with a practiced ease, and sat heavily down beside Jaskier. He scoffed, nudging the bard with an elbow. “Don’t let Lambert fool you, he’s a great admirer of your music.”

“I’m a great admirer of any music that can help me plow a tavern wench, or fill my purse with coin,” Lambert leant against the wall, hands in his pockets. “Don’t let Eskel fool you, he really is a lumbering dimwit.”

“We didn’t meet properly last night,” Eskel said, offering his hand to Jaskier. “Poor hospitality, on my part.”

“No need to apologise,” the bard replied, taking Eskel’s hand in a handshake as firm as he could muster. In the sunlight, he could see the big man a great deal clearer than he had in the driving rain. He closely resembled Geralt, apart from his darker hair and the ugly scar that disfigured his cheek. Geralt had spoken of how he and Eskel had grown up together. Jaskier wondered if the two foundlings had always looked alike, or if it came from their years of living here as children. “I should have come down for a proper greeting once I’d freshened up.”

“No harm done. Geralt said you were ill, but you seem to be doing better now.”

Jaskier fumbled for a response, suddenly annoyed at Geralt's white lie. Clearly he hadn't felt the need to explain the mechanics of their relationship to his Witcher brothers. Perhaps it was out of discretion, protecting Jaskier's privacy or his own image as a burly, manly man. But it still chafed on the bard, much like the worn strap of his lute scraped against the flesh of his throat. Geralt should have asked him, at least, before giving everyone the impression that Jaskier was some feeble, mincing courtier with the vapors.

Lambert grunted. “Tell me, did you grow tired of being coddled, or did Geralt grow tired of playing nursemaid?”

Jaskier steeled his nerves. “Tell me first, will you ever grow tired of the sound of your own voice? Because I just met you, and I’m already sick to death of your rubbish.”

Beside him, Eskel brayed with laughter. Lambert looked neither chastened nor angry at the jab. “If you sing some more, I won’t need to talk as much to fill the silence. By all means, please keep extolling the virtues of a Witcher’s mighty penis. You might make Eskel feel better about the pitiful thing he hides in his trousers.”

Eskel shook his head. He was used to Lambert’s cruelty, it appeared. “I’m far too sober for this sort of banter, lads.” He clapped Jaskier on the shoulder, almost causing him to lose his balance and plummet off the wall. “We’ve a fine haunch of venison roasting on the fire. Might go nicely with a keg of that fine dark stout, and perhaps a song or two. If you’re game?”

“Aye,” Lambert agreed. “Leave Geralt to run around the yard with his little princess. It’s close enough to noon, give or take. Do you drink as well as you play that lute, minstrel?”

“Far better, I wager.” Jaskier grinned widely. “When I’m drunk, even my playing improves. Or so I’ve been told.” 

“Well, I’ve been told I’m far more handsome when other people are drunk,” Eskel remarked in his gravelly, harsh voice. “So let’s get at it, before old Vesemir catches us raiding the cellars.”

Jaskier wasn’t entirely thrilled by the prospect of drinking with Lambert all afternoon, especially if he continued being so disagreeable. However, he recalled his promise to Geralt that he would try to make friends. Nothing proved masculinity more than drinking a Witcher under the table, more to the point. Jaskier felt suddenly thirsty, but it was nothing a large tankard of stout couldn’t cure.


	7. Chapter 7

“Raise your sword, Ciri. Elbows close to your body, just as I showed you.”

The young princess, already flushed a deep pink, raised the carved wooden sword and fixed her eyes on the white-haired Witcher with an impressive determination.

“Feet to shoulder width,” Geralt barked, adopting a loose guard stance. It was her first day, after all. He didn’t want to put her off before she was fully committed to Witcher training. “Find your center of balance before you strike.”

Ciri shifted her feet apart, the soles of her worn hand-me-down boots crunching in the loose dirt and fragments of rock that carpeted the flagstones of the courtyard. She, like Geralt, was dressed lightly despite the weather. The legs of her ill-fitting trousers were rolled up, the waist cinched with a makeshift belt of hempen rope. Her sleeves billowed about her slender arms, and tendrils of her pale hair escaped from their bindings to dance upon the cold wind. She didn’t seem to notice the chill, intent on putting her first lesson into practice.

Ciri took a deep breath and released it in the form of a screech as she sprang toward Geralt, telegraphing her strike clearly as if she were yelling her intentions aloud. Geralt hesitated for a fraction of a second before parrying the blow, deflecting her splintered wooden blade without even blinking.

“Sloppy,” he said, as she glared back at him. “Aim with the edge, not the point or the flat of your blade. Don’t extend your weight too far forward, or you’ll knock yourself off balance.”

“We’ve barely even started,” she protested, breathing heavily. Her heartbeat raced in Geralt’s ears, as fast as a rabbit being chased by hounds.

“Never too early to pick up bad habits,” he replied. “Or to start learning good ones.”

“This blade is ridiculous,” she held up the wooden sword, waving it in Geralt’s direction. “A children’s toy. Why can’t we fight with real swords?”

Geralt smiled. “No offence, Ciri, but I doubt you could even lift one. The strength will come, and the agility. Until then, be patient.”

Ciri uttered a noise of disgust, and dashed her blade to the ground. “How long, weeks? Years? How shall I ever defend us if you refuse to teach me?”

“This isn’t something that can be rushed.” Geralt spoke calmly and evenly, remembering how his instructors used to shout orders at him when he started his own training. It was all too easy to fall into such patterns. “If you study hard, one day you’ll fight alongside the best of us.”

“What if it’s too late already?” She glowered at him. “What if Nilfgaard is already on their way and we don’t have the strength to stop them?”

“You’re safe here. Pick up your sword.”

“It’s a stick, not a sword.” She stomped her foot, sending up a puff of dust. “You can’t honestly tell me that nobody is coming for me. You know it, as do I.”

Geralt growled deep in his throat. “Pick up your sword.”

“If you want it, pick it up yourself.” Ciri spun around, raising her arm to wipe the tears of anger from her eyes. 

“We will protect you from anything that comes,” Geralt offered, biting back his frustration.

“I had a dream last night. Something is out there in the woods, I know it.” Ciri stared at the wall that backed the courtyard as she spoke, as if she were trying to look past the weathered stones into the forest beyond. “Some spirit, or creature. I heard it shrieking and wailing. I saw blood in a drift of snow. Death wants to take one of us.”

Geralt took a step toward her. “Witchers do not fear death,” He said. “We face it without terror every time we lift our swords. Every man here would defend you to his last breath.”

“What about Jaskier?” She asked, turning back toward Geralt. “He’s even more useless at fighting than I am.”

Geralt chuckled. He figured she was right. Jaskier was about as harmless as a kitten, while being at least twice as adorable. He talked a big game, but Geralt had never seen him in an actual fight. “Even Jaskier, but I wouldn’t let him hear that you think him useless. He’d sulk for days.”

“I would protect the both of you with my life,” Ciri said, her chin jutting out in an expression of determination. “Were I ready.”

Geralt nodded. “Let’s get you ready. Pick up your sword.”

Ciri crouched down, retrieving the weapon from the flagstones. She glanced up at Geralt with the hint of a smile on her face. It was a warning, and one that Geralt didn’t recognize. Leaping back to her feet, she swung her blade at the Witcher, catching him off guard. The thick edge of the wooden sword thunked against Geralt’s left bicep with a stinging blow, one that might even leave a bruise.

Her technique was all wrong, but Geralt still found himself impressed.

“Hah!” She cried. “I got you, Geralt! What do you think of that?”

Under the shade of the towering oak that burst from between the cracked flagstones of the courtyard, someone cleared their throat.

“A glancing blow at best, if he’d been in armor.” Vesemir stepped forward, frowning at the pair. “And your left side was open, undefended. If you had an opponent who was paying attention, you’d have taken a killing stroke to the ribs and he’d have nothing more than a nick in his vambrace. This is more of a reflection on his laziness, not your skill.”

Ciri gave a concerned look to Geralt, who merely shrugged.

“I hope your reading skills are more up to scratch, young lady.” Vesemir beckoned at the girl. “Come inside, and we’ll start on the books of histories. But first, I’ll teach you to stretch out your muscles out after a fight. Geralt has always been lax about his stretching.”

Ciri made a sour face before trotting inside out of the cold, thrusting her wooden sword into the weapon rack as she passed it by.

“Don’t be too hard on the girl,” Geralt said to Vesemir, who had been a grumpy old bastard as long as he had lived. “She’s tough, but she’s also scared to death.”

Vesemir hummed in agreement. “So were you, when you first came here. Now look at you, Wolf. Nothing good will come of sparing her the realities of her situation, especially with Nilfgaard hot on her heels.”

Geralt grunted. The old man was right, even though he hated to admit it. Ciri would be woefully unprepared for an attack if they tried to shelter her. No matter how harsh the life of a young Witcher could be, it would be the best armor they could provide.

“Now,” Vesemir began. “Make yourself useful and chop us some wood. Coën is on kitchen duty today, and the others are nowhere to be found. Including that bard of yours.”

Geralt was surprised to hear it. Either Jaskier had run off on his own, or Eskel and Lambert had drawn him into their usual mischief. He wasn’t sure which option was more worrying. “Of course, Vesemir.” He said, his head dipping in an amused gesture of respect.

The older Witcher scoffed at him before making his way to the keep’s entrance. “Bunch of ungrateful layabouts.” His voice carried on the breeze to Geralt’s ears, as clear as if they were talking face to face. “Here’s hoping our Ciri turns out better than you barbarians.”

Geralt smiled to himself as Vesemir disappeared inside and slammed the heavy oaken door. Even if she never displayed the archaic formality of manners Vesemir seemed to expect, it was hard not to like Ciri. He just hoped the old man wouldn’t bore her to death before she got the chance to show them all how special she really was.

Geralt sighed, and went off to find his axe. He was tired from his bedroom antics with Jaskier in the morning, and the place where Ciri struck him on the arm throbbed through the fabric of his shirt. But he still had a long afternoon of chopping wood, and Vesemir would undoubtedly call on him to help Coën prepare the dinner. More than anything, he wished he was back in bed with Jaskier. At least to have him nearby, to talk to as he split the heavy chunks of wood. It would make the time go quicker, even if he provided no help. 

Where was that damn bard, anyway?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As smart as Jaskier thought himself to be, he should have thought harder before trying to outdrink two Witchers in their element.

One of Jaskiers’s lecturers at the Oxenfurt University had always insisted that the budding orators who studied under him only recite with the most solemn air. Poetry was the highest art, he decreed. It was not a matter to be approached with frivolity. 

This distinguished professor, a thoroughly disagreeable cold fish of a man, had taught him very little on how to compose poetry, and even less on how best to recite it. But the serious face he had always worn was the one Jaskier adopted as he began to speak.

“ _I once knew a lady of Velen. The daughter of some old castellan._ ” His intonation was grave, and his gestures grand. “ _Such an image of grace, I’ve forgotten her face. But her breasts were each big as a melon!_ ”

Lambert tossed his head back, bellowing with laughter. His wolf medallion glimmered in the firelight, peeking from the unbuttoned neckline of his jerkin.

“Magnificent,” remarked Eskel, a wide grin on his face. 

Jaskier bowed awkwardly before draining his battered copper tankard. “True story.” Tipping a wink to Eskel, he leaned forward on his bale of hay to refill it from the keg of stout. From her stall nearby, Jaskier could hear Geralt’s horse snort, clearly disapproving of their revelry.

They had found a suitable place to drink for the afternoon in a nice dark corner of Kaer Morhen’s stables. The stables provided little shelter from the elements, but it was the most secluded place they could find on short notice. Their only light was a campfire they had fashioned on a clean-swept patch of earth, surrounded with a ring of stones. It was big enough to keep them warm, but small enough to avoid burning the stable down or attracting Vesemir’s attention to their hiding spot. 

“You have quite an eye for the women, bard.” Eskel’s voice, although still as gruff as it had sounded on first meeting, now seemed a great deal more friendly. “I wager you do well with them too, with your boyish grin and your blue eyes.”

Jaskier blushed, but only slightly. He was getting drunk, after all. And he knew he had been blessed to catch the eye of many beautiful women. The urge to boast was overwhelming. “Occasionally,” he said, aiming for modesty and failing entirely. “When I’m so inclined.”

“Don’t let his bashfulness deceive you,” Lambert remarked, still chuckling. “He may look a mere lad, but he has a reputation. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, is renowned for infiltrating the bedchambers of noblewomen throughout the Northern Kingdoms.” He raised his eyebrows, eyeing Jaskier with open appreciation as he sipped his beer. 

“At one time, I suppose.” Jaskier sighed. Not out of wistful remembrance, but out of relief. When he was younger, there had been a certain type of thrill to wooing the fine ladies of every kingdom. Lounging in their silken sheets, spending their coin. Climbing out their windows when their husbands returned unexpectedly from court. But those days were long past. He was happy to finally be with Geralt, far happier than he’d ever been sneaking around with the wives of barons and marquesses.

“I can believe it,” Eskel said. “You and Geralt are surely a dangerous pair when you roam together. You with your lute, and he with his… sword. You must lay waste to every brothel you come across, between the two of you.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Lambert said, producing a silver flask from his cloak and taking a swig before passing it on to Eskel. The other Witcher gave him a sidelong glance before he also drank, and passed it on to Jaskier. The bard sniffed at the flask warily, grimacing at the strong alcoholic fumes that emenated from it. Conscious of the eyes on him, he took a heavy gulp of the clear spirit within.

It burned as he swallowed. He shuddered, feeling all of his muscles relax as a wave of warmth spread through his body. "Gods, what is this?" He was starting to be aware that he was reaching his limit. They had matched each other drink for drink so far, but neither of the others seemed even slightly drunk. Benefits of a Witcher metabolism, he supposed.

“But Eskel,” Lambert continued, his face a parody of innocence as he reclaimed the flask and tucked it away. “Surely you’re aware that Geralt’s taken. No more whoring for that withered old prune.”

All of a sudden, Jaskier’s heart felt as if it were bouncing back and forth within his ribcage, rattling like a seed within a dried out pod. They knew, did they? “Well, lads. I was going to say…”

Eskel slapped his knee, as if amused by his own forgetfulness. “That’s right. The sorceress from Vengerberg.”

Jaskier’s heart ceased its dance within his cage of bones, and plummeted down onto the packed dirt of the stable floor. Yennefer. Of course. How could he have been so stupid? It always came back to Yennefer.

“Last time I came across Geralt on the path, they were living together in Narok.” Lambert said, as if divulging a rare secret. “If you can believe that. Like an old married couple. Six months, I gave them. And truly enough, they lasted in domestic bliss not a moment longer. But he still can’t be rid of her ghost.”

Oh. They lived together, did they? Jaskier felt momentarily peeved by this revelation. Jaskier had assumed the pairing of Geralt and Yennefer was too volatile to survive being together for more than a night or two at a time. Perhaps he had been wrong. There were long stretches of time Geralt and he had spent apart. Months, or even years. He had always assumed, strangely, that Geralt had been as alone as he was during these times. Staring up at the same moon. Sighing with wistful loneliness in the company of nobody but his horse, wishing he had Jaskier there to keep him merry. 

“To be fair, I don’t like her,” Eskel stated baldly, forever earning a place in Jaskier’s weary heart. “They’re all wrong for each other. And she’s a cold-hearted bitch.”

“I can’t begin to understand how someone can fall in love at all,” Lambert said. “It’s just not in my nature. But anyone with eyes can see how hard he’s fallen.”

“I…” Jaskier spoke up, feeling suddenly feverish. “I wouldn’t call it love. It’s a djinn’s spell. A curse, even.”

“But regardless of your feelings about the sorceress,” Lambert said to Eskel, as if he had not even heard the bard speak. “I think we should celebrate the triumph of our kinsman. It’s good to see our Geralt so happy. A toast, to Geralt!”

Lambert raised his tankard high. Watching Jaskier carefully, he frowned once it became clear that the bard was not inclined to celebrate Geralt and Yennefer’s future happiness. “You won’t drink to Geralt, friend?” He asked, smirking briefly at Eskel. “What of the lovely Yennefer, then? Surely you must drink to her famed beauty.”

Jaskier placed his tankard on the hay bale beside him, overly aware of how uncomfortable it was to breathe. He took a great gulp of air, but it didn’t seem to fill his lungs.

“Lambert, that’s enough.” Eskel spoke up, concern creeping into his gravelly voice.

Lambert held up his hand. Fire danced behind his eyes. “It’s enough when I say it’s enough. Drink, Jaskier.”

“I won’t.” Jaskier replied, the room spinning around him.

“Drink to Yennefer and Geralt,” Lambert goaded him, a vicious smile upon his face. “Theirs is a love that will last all of time. You’d best just get used to it, bard.”

“I won’t!” Jaskier lunged to his feet, which had seemingly lost their ability to hold his weight. After a first ill-placed step, he fell backwards onto the hay.

Eskel appeared at his side with impressive speed, grasping his shoulders to lift him back into a seated position. He frowned at Lambert. “I never should have agreed to this. I thought it might be fun to tease him for a bit, but I didn’t expect you to outright torture the boy.”

Jaskier felt more grounded with the burly Witcher holding him up, and he prayed silently that Eskel wouldn’t let go. “Don’t call me ‘boy’,” He mumbled.

“I just wanted Jaskier to accept the fact that love is a fool’s game,” Lambert said, his voice calm and mellow. He downed his beer with a single draught. “The life of a mortal man is too short to be pining after a nigh-immortal Witcher whose fate is already tied to a nigh-immortal witch. Poetic, perhaps. But pointless.”

“Is this all a big jest to you?” Jaskier said, although his lips felt numb and the words came out garbled.

“Everything is a joke. If you lived as long as we do, you’d realize it. ” Lambert put down his tankard, winking at Jaskier. “It’s not that Witchers are emotionless, it’s just that most of us know how stupid it is to feel. Human ambitions, human love. All of us turn to dust in the end. Better to fuck whoever you want, while you’re still alive to do it.”

“That’s what this is about?” Eskel asked, incredulous. He shook his head. “You’re just trying to coax the bard into your bed.”

Lambert shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he said. “It’ll be a long, cold winter here in the Blue Mountains.”

“Well,” Jaskier sniffed, holding himself as straight and tall as his drunkenness allowed. With Eskel’s steadying grip, he felt that he was projecting a fair amount of dignity. “While I am flattered, and I must say that your leather pants leave little to the imagination…” He glanced purposefully at the modest bulge in Lambert’s trousers. “I’ve had a far better offer. Maybe by the end of the winter, you can learn to love your own hand as much as I love Geralt.”

Eskel snorted with sudden laughter. 

“You do love him, then?” Lambert asked. He didn’t seem at all put off by Jaskier’s reproof.

“I do,” Jaskier replied, realizing as he did that he had never told this secret to anyone.

“Pay up,” said Eskel. “Five crowns, Lambert.”

The younger Witcher groaned. “Fine, enough of this charade. Remind me never to gamble with you again, Eskel.” Lambert stood and tossed a small pouch onto the dirt floor before he stomped off into the courtyard. 

“I love Geralt,” said Jaskier, relishing the feel of the words as they rolled off his tongue.

“Good,” said Eskel comfortingly. “I’m glad. I’d toast to it, but you’ve already had far too much to drink. Let’s get you inside to bed, bard.”

Jaskier nodded in agreement as Eskel lifted him to his feet, feeling the world lurch and sway beneath him.

“I love him so much,” he said, smiling as he slung an arm across Eskel’s shoulder. It felt so good to say it.

The sun was setting overhead, and the evening meal would soon be ready. Barely faltering under Jaskier’s weight, the Witcher led him back toward the keep.


	9. Chapter 9

The cold shadows of the afternoon were growing longer and longer, eating what remained of the sunlight as they crept slowly across the ancient facade of Kaer Morhen. Like some kind of disease that preyed on warmth and life, a cancer. Ciri sat with her back to the outer wall, curled up in her fur-lined cloak among the rubble of fallen stones. A broken princess, becoming one with the broken castle. She watched the darkness settle over the mountains, listening to the night. Rats and other small creatures scurried in the ruined corners of the keep. Birds cried out, mourning the loss of color as the oranges and pinks of the sky began to fade. And just as the sun dipped below the horizon, when the shadows had swallowed every trace of the day, she heard something else.

A sudden shriek echoed through the valley, sending a chill through Ciri’s body even though she had been waiting for exactly this. Another shriek, and another in quick succession. Wailing and high, undulating in pitch. A ghastly melody, of sorts. The sound from her dream, brought into reality. The birds in the trees stopped calling, as if stricken by terror. The insects of the evening fell into silence. Even the rodents in the walls ceased their chittering and scampering.

“Dark things are coming,” said a voice that raised the hair on Ciri’s neck. She didn’t recall speaking, she hadn’t intended to say a word. But it was her voice, all the same. A little deeper, and full of certainty. But it came from her lips.

As if her words had roused the world from stasis, she heard a scuffle of footsteps across the courtyard. A figure was moving, swiftly and purposefully. From his build, his gait, and the moonlit sheen of his silver hair, she guessed it was Geralt.

He stopped in his tracks, as if sensing sounds of movement. He scanned the shadows with his strange Witcher eyes, scowling heavily. And finally, he saw her. He sighed, and moved towards her. She cringed slightly within the safety of her warm cloak. Was he angry? She couldn’t tell, most of the time. How could a frown of concern differ from one of relief? And what of the frown that marked him as tired, or hungry? She had even seen him frown from happiness.

“Ciri,” he said finally, once he was close enough to be heard. “What are you doing, sitting out here in the dark?”

Ciri ignored his question. Surely, it must be obvious. She was standing guard, defending the keep as a good Witcher must. Protecting them all from the bringers of death. “Did you hear it?” She asked quietly. “The creature from my dreams was shrieking, down in the valley.”

“Hmm?” Geralt replied, casting a glance around him. “I heard nothing.”

“Something is out there.” Ciri kept her voice hushed lest she drown out another cry from the depth of the woods. “A foul omen. A beann’shie.” She spoke the unfamiliar word carefully, just as Vesemir had taught her.

Geralt chuckled, crouching down beside her. His voice was mellow and amused as he spoke. “How do you know about beann’shies, little lion?”

Ciri scowled. Geralt obviously thought she was some stupid child, merely playing at being a Witcher. “I read about them today with Uncle Vesemir,” she explained. “I told him about my dream, and he let me see the passage in Brother Adalbert’s bestiary.”

“Oh, really?” Geralt smiled indulgently at her, the type of smile Mousesack had always worn when he thought she was being ‘precocious’. “I never expected you to be such an eager student. Go on then, what did the bestiary say?”

“Well,” Ciri furrowed her brow, running through the paragraphs in her mind. While it had been a relief to put away the musty old book of Witcher history, the language in the bestiary was archaic and far harder to read. At least there had been illustrations. Beside the paragraph on beann’shies, there had been a picture of a woman with her clothing in rags, tears streaming down her face. Her mouth was open in a silent howl. “They’re spirits stuck in a place beyond life. They don’t hurt people who are alive, but they’re an omen of death and bad things.”

“Good,” Geralt said. “And when does the beann’shie appear?”

“Are you trying to test me?” Ciri asked, stalling as she tried to remember. “Saovine night.”

Geralt hummed in agreement, reaching out to ruffle her hair with one of his large hands. “Very good. But it’s not Saovine tonight, is it?”

“I’m not sure.” she replied honestly. Time had become all muddled since she fled Cintra, and she barely knew what month it was, let alone the day. “But it has to be close. It’s a beann’shie, it must be.”

Geralt gave her a look she didn’t quite understand. Pity, maybe. “Sometimes we have a tendency to cling to the facts that support our point of view, and discard the ones that contradict it. A Witcher needs to move beyond emotion and focus on facts. What else could it have been?”

“I don’t know,” Ciri replied, unsure. “I haven’t read the rest of the bestiary yet.”

“Treasure your innocence while you still have it. Uncle Vesemir will torture you with that bloody book for years.” Geralt smiled conspiratorially at her, and held out his hand. “Come with me, Ciri.”

Ciri pulled herself to her feet with Geralt’s help, her legs numb from the long stretch of waiting on the cold flagstones. He led her up the stairs to the highest terrace, where the view of the twilit valley was unobstructed by the castle’s curtain wall. The flagstones up here had given way to bare earth and weeds. Garden beds that were once neat rows of healing herbs were now overgrown and wild, their crazed vines trailing around the wooden scaffolds that kept the structure of the castle from disintegrating.

“We Witchers make poor housekeepers, so there are many creatures in the mountains around Kaer Morhen.” Geralt pointed south of the castle. “The old signal tower has oft been infested with harpies. They shriek all night long, if they’re in the mood.”

Ciri followed his gaze, but was unable to see the signal tower in the gloom. “Harpies?” she asked, her voice small. 

Geralt gestured in another direction, to the mountains on the other side of the valley. “And to the west, the stronghold on the hill. Witchers trained in the old bastion many years ago, before the villagers came to raid Kaer Morhen. But now the wraiths hold court there. Have you ever heard the pained howls of a wraith?”

Ciri shuddered, but she didn’t want Geralt to know how much his stories frightened her. She didn’t know if she ever wanted to hear a wraith, or a harpy. But she steeled herself. A Witcher had to be unafraid of such things. A Witcher faced them, sword ready. “The creature in my dream wasn’t a harpy, or some wandering ghost. It was something far worse.”

Geralt gazed down at her, his loose hair blowing in the evening breeze. “Sometimes, dreams are just dreams. Terrors of the night are often shown to be nothing in the daytime. Never mind harpies, or ghosts. Sometimes an unfamiliar cry is just a wolf, or a great soaring eagle.”

“I know what I dreamed,” Ciri protested.

Geralt placed a hand upon her shoulder. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll patrol outside the gates tonight. I’ll listen out for this creature of yours.”

She was sure he was just trying to make her feel better, but it worked. “Thank you, Geralt.”

“You won’t thank me if your supper gets cold before you get a chance to eat,” he replied gruffly, spinning her around towards the door of the keep. The lights in the windows, the sounds of voices. “Now, get inside.”

Before she followed, Ciri took one last glance at the dark forest beyond the walls. The wailing cries of her monstrous dreams still echoed in her memory, and flashes of blood in a drift of snow.

She wished it could just be a dream, but she knew better.


	10. Chapter 10

The Great Hall of the Witcher’s Keep was humming with life. A cacophony of discordant singing and laughter that echoed off the high walls, mingling with the sweet pine smoke from the fireplace. 

The Witchers were crowded around the large, ancient table. Lambert and Eskel, riotously drunk, were belting out the chorus of a ribald ditty while Coën dished out their evening stew. Vesemir glowered at them from the head of the table, but they didn’t even seem to notice him. Unsurprisingly, it was one of Jaskier’s more popular tavern tunes, but the bard himself was nowhere to be seen.

“Quiet, you lot.” Geralt snapped at them, making his annoyance very visible. He had heard this song many times. It had a tune that stuck in your head and stayed there for weeks, as the best songs always did. He also knew the verses grew filthier and filthier as they went along, and it wasn’t for Ciri to hear. He guided the girl toward the table. “And you will sit. Eat.”

Coën filled a bowl and placed it at an empty seat. “Come sit by me,” he encouraged her. “Tell me all about your first day of training.”

As Ciri sat and began devouring her meal with barely a breath between mouthfuls, Geralt stayed where he was. Lambert glared at him, cheated of his merriment. “What, don’t you like our singing?” He asked.

“I’ve heard much better,” Geralt replied.

“So have I,” Eskel interjected, after taking a gulp of his cider. “But your charming minstrel’s gone and run off on us, so this is the best we can do. Come, Geralt. Fetch him back here, I could do with a better tune.”

“And a better view,” Lambert added, with a wink. “I’m sick of looking at all these ugly mugs. No offence, Eskel.”

Eskel sneered, but he had heard enough gibes about his scarred face through the years. He was thoroughly used to it by now.

“Where is Jaskier?” Geralt asked. He was a little concerned, he had to admit. Eskel and Lambert were thoroughly inebriated, which meant that they had likely been drinking much of the day. A Witcher’s sturdy metabolism took a great deal of liquor to achieve that effect. If Jaskier had been with them, hopefully he had been a little more sensible.

“These louts have been raiding the cellars all day,” Vesemir proclaimed gravely. “I wouldn’t trust them to tell you which way is up.”

“Rubbish,” Eskel said. “If I lie on the floor here, up is the direction I’ll be looking. Easy.”

“As for your question,” Vesemir continued. “I haven’t seen the young fellow.”

Eskel planted his elbows on the table, cupping his head with both hands. “Actually, lying down on the floor sounds quite good, right now.”

“Lambert, where is Jaskier?” Geralt growled. 

Lambert shrugged. “Saw him last at sunset. It’s not my fault if the poor fellow got himself lost.”

Near Geralt’s elbow, Ciri was chattering away with the young Griffin. Eager to set aside her feelings of dread about the future, she was urged into good humor by his easy manner. She was recounting her sword-fighting training with a mouth full of stew, waving her arms about as she told him of the heroic strike she made on Geralt before they finished up for the day. She continued by complaining that she had learned to fight at the age of eight, and had many bad things to say about her wooden training sword.

Finally, Eskel cleared his throat. “Lambert was the one who brought the flask of White Gull,” he said to Geralt, obviously hoping to clear himself of blame. He knew Geralt’s temper very well. “Wasn’t my idea, Wolf. Didn’t know it would hit him so hard.”

“What?” Geralt took a deep breath, stilling his urge to drag Lambert from his seat and beat him senseless. Ciri had stopped talking and was watching him, her pale eyes glinting in the firelight. This was not the place for violence.

White Gull was more a potion than a liquor, a hallucinogenic brew that could be a pleasant way to spend the evening. It was more suited to a Witcher’s constitution, though. For humans who hadn’t undertaken the mutations, it could be a potent drug. The drunken bard was probably wandering alone through the castle, disoriented and completely lost. Either that, or he had somehow found his way beyond the gates and he was being snacked on by some beast in the darkness.

“He had some trouble climbing the stairs,” Eskel said. “Clambered up them on his hands and knees, the damndest thing. Wouldn’t let me help him, so I stayed down here.”

“There you go,” Lambert said in a grandiose voice, accompanied by a loud belch. “The fool is probably sleeping it off. No danger can befall him within these stout walls. No need to come to blows for your fair minstrel’s honor.”

Geralt surged toward the table, slamming his palms on the heavy oaken surface as he leaned towards Lambert. All the dishes rattled at the heavy blow. Geralt knew that everyone was watching him warily, as if they were keeping an eye on a wild animal with a taste for blood. “If you ever harm Jaskier in any way,” he promised, in a low and rumbling tone. “I will come for you. I don’t care who you are. I’ll shove my fucking steel so far down your throat it’ll come out your arse.”

“That’s enough!” Vesemir’s voice boomed from the head of the table. “We are kinsmen here, Geralt. No blood will be shed tonight.”

“Geralt,” Ciri said, her voice as meek as a sparrow. She reached out to place her hand upon Geralt’s, urging him towards calm.

Lambert smirked, keeping eye contact with Geralt as he dabbed at his plate of stew with a crust of dark bread. Suddenly, he lunged to his feet. Arching over the table, he closed the distance between them. “Am I to expect a moonlit visit, White Wolf?” He whispered into Geralt’s ear, hurried and hushed to be indiscernible to human ears. Perhaps an effort made to shelter the young princess from his words. “Will you creep into my chamber as I sleep, to give me a taste of your sword? Better to stay in the comfort of your bed and tend to your young friend. I’d hate to make the poor boy jealous.”

So Lambert knew, then. Geralt knew it had to come out eventually, especially if Jaskier continued to be as vocal about his pleasure when they were together. He wasn’t ashamed of it, even if he were capable of such shame after his Witcher mutations. There were many flavors on the buffet table life presented to him. Female, male, or anything beyond those boundaries. Sex was an infinite smorgasbord as far as Geralt was concerned. However, he had never expected that Jaskier would be the one to break the news, with his womanizing reputation.

Lambert, looking entirely pleased by Geralt’s frozen indecision, returned to his seat and his supper. Geralt stepped back, his ire dulled. Distracted by the thoughts that began to careen within the bone caverns of his skull, he moved behind Ciri’s chair and ruffled her pale hair as a means of comfort. There would be no fighting tonight, as long as Jaskier was safe. He wouldn’t subject his little lion cub to such a thing.

“Will you sup with us, Geralt?” The Griffin Coën asked, trying to keep his voice merry. He seemed stunned by the whispered exchange, the abrupt cessation of hostility. His genial face, pockmarked by some childhood ailment, still showed the concern that lurked underneath.

“Lost my appetite,” Geralt replied, glancing over at the unrepentant Lambert who winked back at him. “Take care of Ciri, will you? I’ve a wayward bard to find.”


	11. Chapter 11

The malt stench of beer filled the small space, the bite of vodka. Undercutting all, the herbal tang of White Gull. Geralt grimaced. The hallway behind him was dim and shed no light on the interior of the room, but his Witcher eyes allowed him to see the pale shape upon the narrow bed. He sighed and closed the door behind him so that none of the others would walk past and witness this scene. 

“Jaskier, you idiot.” He said into the darkness.

He knew that the bard had never made it all the way up the tower. He could tell even before he was even halfway up the stairs, where Jaskier’s scent had faded to a muted memory. Retracing his steps, he had returned to the first floor and followed his senses towards the Witcher’s cells.

He had followed Jaskier’s fog of alcoholic vapour into almost every chamber. The bard had wrestled Eskel’s prized bearskin from the bed, and it was still on the floor in a furry and forlorn pile. The room was still pungent with the scent of fear, and the hide was damp with tears. Jaskier had moved to Lambert’s room next, where he had carefully and neatly relieved his bladder in one of the man’s calfskin boots. In Ciri’s room he had abandoned one of his own boots, as the lace had snapped.

And in Geralt’s own tiny room, the trail had stopped.

Geralt sighed, casting an igni sign with a casual gesture of his hands. The single candle that he kept here, barely a stub of tallow in the high wall sconce, burst into life with a sparkle of igniting dust.

Jaskier had stretched himself out as much as possible on the narrow cot, every stitch of his clothing cast away onto the grimy stone floor. A drunken splay of gangly limbs, goose-pimpled flesh. He cursed, squeezing his eyes closed as tightly as possible to block out the sudden flash of light. “Are you some spirit sent to drag me to the netherworld?” He choked out. “Begone, vile wraith.”

“You’re not dead,” Geralt replied. “You may wish you were, when morning comes.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s arm jerked upwards, flopped over his eyes. “I’ve waited here for a thousand years, and you come at last.”

Geralt hummed, crouching to place Jaskier’s discarded boot on the floor beside its upturned twin. “Managed to find my chamber, did you?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” the bard replied. He allowed the shield of his forearm to drop away from his eyes and squinted up at the Witcher. He seemed to have some trouble focusing his eyes. “To be honest, I wanted to find a privy. You live like savages in this ruin, by the way. I ended up availing myself of a chamberpot along the way.”

A brief smile flashed across Geralt’s face as he imagined Lambert’s reaction upon finding his ‘chamberpot’ in the morning. Perhaps if he were got drunk enough, he might think he had pissed in his own boots.

“Are you surprised?” Jaskier tried to arrange himself in an alluring pose. The result was less than tempting, but Geralt still found himself charmed by the effort. “I have braved foul beasts and mighty obstacles to reach your bed. I must claim my prize upon your lips.”

Geralt grunted with amusement, seating himself on the foot of the bed beside the drunken bard. Jaskier reached toward him with greedy fingers, whimpering when they grasped nothing but air.

“Better to get some sleep,” Geralt said, placing a hand upon Jaskier’s bare leg. His skin was worryingly cold, and it was akin to fondling a corpse. The drugs coursing through Jaskier’s veins would go a great distance toward blocking out the chill, but it was far too frosty an evening to be lolling around unclothed. Geralt untucked the worn blankets of his bed, throwing them around the bard’s body as he struggled clumsily to capture Geralt in an embrace.

“Your resistance does you credit.” Jaskier cried, wriggling like a restless baby trapped in its swaddling clothes. “But I shall not be denied. Kiss me.”

With a reluctant sigh, Geralt leaned in and planted a brief kiss upon Jaskier’s pliant and supple lips. Close-mouthed, but even so he felt he could taste the essence of the bard’s scent. The evanescent sweetness of liquor, fading into a resinous tang of juniper. He pulled away slightly, hearing Jaskier groan underneath him as he licked his lips to chase the intoxicating flavor.

“You have no idea…” Jaskier began, his voice hoarse. “You don’t even know how badly I need you to fuck me right now. Lift my legs over your shoulders and plow me until I scream.”

Geralt took a deep breath, waging war with his own desires. They were so close that Jaskier’s breath tickled against his lips, taunting him to capture and claim. But the slur of the bard’s words was a warning sign. He could handle White Gull himself, but for all he knew, Jaskier wouldn’t remember a moment of this once he woke up hungover and wretched. This was a risk he wasn’t willing to take. “Perhaps in the morning,” he said finally, increasing the distance between them. “Once you’re sober enough. Get some sleep.”

Geralt got up from the bed, leaving a panting Jaskier to writhe on the bed, his arms trapped by his sides. Finally giving up, Jaskier grew still. “You don’t want me anymore?” He asked, a plaintive clarity in his words. He closed his eyes, as if it would hide him from Geralt’s searching gaze. “They warned me about you, but I didn’t want to believe it. Are you going to leave me?”

Geralt felt as if the hand of a rock troll had gripped his lungs, all the breath in his body leaving him in a grim instant. He inhaled sharply. “What gave you that idea?” he asked, shaken by the misery he heard in Jaskier’s voice. He found himself angry at Lambert, once again. What warnings had he given the bard, to fill him with this much fear? He hoped that it was just the grip of the White Gull that made Jaskier so suggestible. “I promised you before, and I stick by my words. I’m not leaving you again. Now, shove over.”

Without waiting for a response Geralt extinguished the candle and removed his soiled shirt and trousers, tossing them to the floor. He clambered into the bed, nudging Jaskier aside.

Geralt tugged one of the blankets over his body, freeing Jaskier from his fuzzy prizon. The bard sighed, nestling against Geralt’s back and throwing a possessive arm around him.

“Hands to yourself,” Geralt muttered, but was answered only by a sleepy huff of breath as Jaskier lazily stroked the hair on his chest.

“Kiss me again,” Jaskier begged.

“Sleep,” Geralt ordered. “We have an entire winter, pace yourself.”

The Witcher could feel the slowing of Jaskier’s pulse as he began to drift into sleep, as the motion of his fingertips across Geralt’s chest weakened and ceased. He closed his eyes, regulating his breathing so he could follow the bard into dreams. Even if there was something in the woods outside the castle, tonight was not the time to hunt. Tonight, he had to stay with Jaskier.

Just as the darkness creeped in to claim him, Geralt heard a voice right beside his ear. “I love you,” Slurred and barely audible, but unmistakable. “I’m yours, even if you can’t love me back. I always will be yours.”

Geralt’s eyes opened in the darkness.

“I do love you.” Geralt whispered. Part of him knew that he was only saying it because Jaskier would never remember it in the morning. He wasn’t proud of it, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. Old habits were hard to change.

Beside him, Jaskier rolled onto his back and began to snore.

Something cried out into the night, a sickening sonic blast far beyond the range of human hearing and the consciousness of the Witchers inside the crumbling walls of Kaer Morhen. 

And far above the worn and ancient stones of the Witcher’s Keep, the first snows of winter began to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working on this! Sorry for the delay, hoping to have the next chapter up within the week.
> 
> Edit: Hah! A week. Wishful thinking.


	12. Part Two: The Snow

**Part Two: The Snow**

A week of almost constant snowfall had carpeted the woods in foot-deep drifts that crunched beneath the tread of his boot. A rabbit screamed in the dusklight as he approached, before dashing into the the frost-rimed underbrush for safety. Here in the shadow of Kaer Morhen, the wildlife had learned well to fear mankind.

Witcher-kind, more specifically. But rabbits were not keen-sensed enough to tell the difference between a mortal and a mutant. To a mere bunny, Witchers were just angry, hungry, and dangerous men.

Jaskier hoisted the strap of his lute higher on his shoulder, following the path of his own footsteps that led back to the Keep. His gait was careful but unhurried, despite the imminent nightfall. He doubted he was in any danger out here, especially so close to the castle.

At Ciri’s behest, Geralt had spent his evenings clearing out the beasts who had taken up residence in the vicinity. While Ciri learned the fundamentals of tumbling with Lambert and Vesemir, he had tackled a nest of harpies in the signal tower. On the next night, he had enlisted Coën’s help to chase away the wraiths of the ancient dead that still haunted the old watchtower. They had even taken on a troop of nekkers by the river, even though there was no chance these were the creatures who caused Ciri such unrest.

The area was safer than it had been in decades. It also gave Geralt an outlet for the anger he might otherwise have directed toward others - Lambert, for example. Geralt had a jealous streak as wide as the Korath desert, and he was still sore about the way Lambert had treated his bard. Jaskier hated to be the source of enmity between the Witchers, but the least he could do was ensure it didn’t come to blows. Better to satiate his lover’s rage by encouraging him to chop foul creatures into mincemeat before adjourning to their shared bed full of adrenaline from the thrill of battle. 

It was a beneficial arrangement, but it left Jaskier with the task of avoiding further conflict while Geralt was around to see. He had very little to do in the afternoons apart from wander the woods and compose new songs. He would sup with the other Witchers and share a cautious drink and a song after Geralt left to hunt, but he preferred to keep his distance from them until nightfall. Just in case.

Jaskier shivered, his toes burning with the cold as melting frost seeped into his shoes. He conjured in his mind an image of the towering fire in the hearth of the great hall, trying to summon heat by the power of mere thought. It wouldn’t be long before he was warming his stockinged feet by the glowing embers, with a tankard of warm spiced Mahakaman mead in his fist and Ciri by his side, showing off the bruises and scrapes she had earned in her day’s training.

An eagle cried out into the sky, soaring back home to its eyrie. The hoot of an owl celebrated the setting of the unseen sun. Jaskier stopped suddenly in his tracks, the flesh goose-pimpled on the back of his neck as he gazed upon the path of boot-prints with growing horror. The trail was becoming fainter, his prints polished from the fresh snow by the brisk mountain winds. Up ahead, they vanished completely.

“Fuck,” he muttered, glancing around him for a familiar landmark and finding none. “This is all I bloody need.”

As far as Jaskier could see it, there were few choices. It was too cold, and it was rapidly growing too dark for him to stay where he was and hope for rescue. He could keep walking straight ahead, hoping that soon he would come across the castle or something else he recognised. Or, he could walk to higher ground and pray that he’d see a light that would lead him to the Keep.

Sighing, Jaskier settled on the second option. He continued trudging through the snow on his numb feet, allowing himself to veer up the gently sloping hillside.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Jaskier was grateful that the light was still good enough to see, but there was nothing but rocks, trees and a whole lot of snow around him. He was just beginning to regret his choice when he crested a hill and finally spotted his salvation. A crumbling edifice came into sight, its gap-toothed battlements piercing the night sky. Some kind of fort, or a tower. A lookout. With luck there would be a stairway to climb, to search for the lights of the Keep. Failing that, it looked intact enough to at least provide some shelter from the wind if he were forced to stay the night.

Jaskier approached the fort with caution, treading as quietly as he could across the brittle crust of snow. He listened for unexpected creatures within the decrepit structure, but he couldn’t hear the scuffling of beastly footsteps, or the groans of ghouls. Nor could he hear the wailing and moaning of grim spectres. Apart from the whistle of the wind and his own lightly crackling footsteps, he could hear nothing at all. But despite this reassurance, he hesitated at the threshold.

It may have been the encroaching darkness or the unfamiliarity of this place, but Jaskier had a sick churning in his stomach and a strange buzzing in his ears. It felt almost like the moment of awakening from a nightmare, just before the recognition of the real world settled in. The moment where anything was possible, and every horrid fantasy seemed all too real.

He peered into the darkened courtyard, scanning for anything that could have caused his instinctual unease. All he saw was dusty flagstones adorned with dunes of wind-sculpted snow, and walls overgrown with lush vines. It was quite nice, actually. Jaskier took a step inside. 

A twig snapped beneath his heel, echoing against the silent walls and making him jump. A large pitch-black bat that had been roosting in the shadows above the doorway took this opportunity to startle at his arrival, and launched down toward the unsuspecting bard. 

Jaskier cried out as the bat’s leathern wings beat against his head, and he flailed his arms in an attempt to dislodge it. Grazing Jaskier’s scalp with its talons as it finally reoriented itself, the bat flew shrieking into the fortress.

Jaskier raised a shaking hand to his hair, finding it matted with blood. His heart was still pounding. “Ploughing whoreson!” He yelled after the creature, as it disappeared into a ruined alcove shrouded by vines.

He was loath to spend a moment longer in this place, dreading what other grim surprises would be lying in wait. However, he reasoned, he had no choice. Jaskier took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and moved deeper into the ruined structure.

Sadly, he found that there were no ladders to the battlements, and no walls he could scale with his current level of upper-body fitness. He could try to climb the heavy vines that adorned the stone walls but he disliked the prospect of falling on his arse if he misjudged the strength of his handholds. 

More to the point, there was no real succour from the elements here. He stopped his exploration and sighed, fearing that he had simply found a more secluded place to die of the cold. 

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. A human figure, passing by an archway to his left. A woman, pale-faced, who glanced at him as she hurried by.

Jaskier fought the urge to run screaming.

“Hello?” He asked, standing his ground. She had seemed solid enough in the moment he had glimpsed her, and she had walked with human feet rather than gliding in the manner he imagined a wraith would move. 

There was no response. Surely if she were some evil creature, she would have charged at him by now, torn him to shreds.

“Miss?” He asked, taking a step toward the archway. 

He heard the sound of quiet weeping above the wind, and a feeling of intense sadness washed over him. His instinct was to get as far from this place as he could, but he was a gentleman. If she were indeed human, he could not let this poor creature suffer. 

Jaskier groaned as he forced his feet to move closer and closer to the archway, praying silently to all the gods that he wasn’t making a mistake. “I won’t hurt you,” he called out, his voice cracking. 

He found her seated on the bottom step of what was one a grand stairway scaling the majestic walls. She glanced toward him, her dark eyes rimmed with tears. She certainly seemed human enough, and this buoyed his confidence.

“My dear lady,” Jaskier said. “What’s wrong?” He was suddenly relieved he had not pissed his pants when the bat had appeared, or it would have been difficult to portray the kind of chivalrous heroism he was aiming for. 

The maiden cleared her throat, for a maiden she indeed seemed. Her hair was long and dark, flowing over her bare shoulders in coarse waves. Her face had a purity and sweetness about it, although it was most dreadfully pale in the moonlight. Her lips were full, tinted the deep colour of a bruised plum. “You are not one of the witch-men?” Her voice was strange, strongly and unfamiliarly accented. 

“No,” Jaskier replied, moving slowly toward her. “Not a witch-man. But a friend.”

She peered up at him, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. 

“Why are you here alone on such a frigid night?” Jaskier asked. He judged it acceptable to move closer still. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

The girl shivered slightly at his words, as if only now feeling the cold. She was dressed in a gown of threadbare linen, the red colour faded and worn. She wore no cloak to shield her from the winter chill, and her feet were clad only in thin slippers, scuffed and dirty. “The wind bites most cruelly,” she admitted finally.

Jaskier’s fingers moved to the metal clasp of his cloak, motivated by an unconscious protective urge. He fumbled clumsily with the fastening, his dexterity hindered by his thick leather gauntlets.

She watched him curiously.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Just a moment.”

Raising his right hand to his mouth, he bit down upon the leather and tugged the restrictive covering from his hand. He allowed the gauntlet to fall to the ground, wincing at the sting of the cold air on his fingertips as he worked the clasp open. Finally, he dragged the cloak free from his shoulders. He crouched to toss the fur-lined garment over the girl’s shoulders, a triumphant grin upon his face.

“Thank you,” she murmured sadly, clutching the cloak around her body as Jaskier sat on the step beside her. “You are most gallant.”

“What are you doing out here, all by yourself?” Jaskier repeated, his voice brimming with concern.

The girl shook her head, casting her eyes down. A clear show of reluctance, perhaps even shame.

“Your name, dear lady. Give me that, at least.” He pressed her, surely an easy enough question. She didn’t trust him, but Jaskier wouldn’t allow himself to give up.

“I have been called Zaklina,” she murmured finally, her voice low and hesitant. Jaskier got the inkling that this wasn’t a name she chose, but rather one that was given her.

“A pretty name, for a pretty woman.” Jaskier replied automatically, counting himself successful when the shadow of a smile appeared upon her face. “They call me Jaskier. From where do you come, dear Zaklina?”

She paused, biting her lip. Her teeth were very white, shining brightly despite the gloom of the evening. “A hut, in the village downriver.” She offered, finally.

Jaskier was surprised. He hadn’t heard that there was a settlement nearby, but the Blue Mountains were still somewhat of a mystery to him. “Can I take you home?” He asked.

“It is not my home,” she replied, a touch too sharply. “It is a haunted place, full of the screams of the dead. I would burn it to the foundations, if it were not already crumbling to ruin. Better to let the earth reclaim it.”

A picture was beginning to form in Jaskier’s mind at her words. Her accent was rich and unfamiliar, nothing borne of Kaedwen or the Northern Kingdoms. Was she a slave, then? A sweet, exotic flower, plucked from the lands of her home and transplanted within this unhospitable soil? He hoped it was not the case.

Jaskier cocked his head to the side, studying her with curiosity. “You have a way with words. Are you a poet?”

“I only tell the truth,” she responded dismissively. She glanced at the lute strapped to Jaskier’s back. “Are you a poet, Jaskier?”

Jaskier smiled, puffing out his chest. “I do not claim to be a master of the art,” he offered humbly, knowing that his master’s degree from the Oxenfurt University proved him a liar. “But yes. I am a bard, by trade.”

“You are strange company for a band of witch-men,” Zaklina remarked. “They are so hard.” Without warning, she reached out to clasp Jaskier’s bare hand in her own. Her fingers felt like ice, a shock to his senses. “Whereas you are so soft. Like the velvet on the first antlers of a fawn.”

Jaskier frowned, trying to extricate his hand from her grasp. He didn’t want to give her the wrong idea, despite his thoughtless flirting. It was a habit borne of many years, and he didn’t quite know how to break it. “I find that there is a soft centre to even the hardest man,” he replied distractedly.

She nodded solemnly. “That is true,” she admitted. “You just have to bite down hard enough.”

Jaskier burst out laughing. Zaklina had a good sense of humor, to be sure. He couldn’t leave her out in the wilds of the Blue Mountains in good conscience. “Come back to the Witcher’s Keep with me,” he said. “We have a warm fire, and enough food for one more at the table. As long as you don’t bite any of the Witchers, I’m sure they’ll welcome your ready wit.”

Zaklina shook her head. “No. I won’t go to the witch-men. They cannot know I’m here.”

Jaskier scowled, unsure. He knew that there was a prejudice against Witchers, especially in the rural areas, but he didn’t think it would have extended so close to the Wolf School’s stronghold. They could be brusque at times, most definitely. But they had a common goal of protecting humanity. How could she be so afraid?

“The Witchers would never hurt you. They only kill monsters.”

Her face curled into an expression of disgust, recoiling at the bitterness of her own thoughts. “I wonder at how well you know their kind. Anyone can be seen as a monster if you don’t listen to their side of the story.”

Jaskier began to speak and then faltered, unable to express bland reassurance. Would a Witcher ever hurt an innocent? With coin on offer and only one side of a tale, it was more than likely. He hoped Geralt would be better than that, but even he had been the victim of heresay in the past.

“Tell me your story, and I will relay it.” Jaskier pleaded. He would never dream of dragging her from this place against her will, especially as he didn’t know the way back to the castle. “Geralt will believe me. I swear by all the gods, you will not be harmed. If you stay here, you will freeze.”

Zaklina met his eye, her gaze searching. Jaskier became aware of the numbness of his bare fingers. Rather than warming at his touch, her hand seemed only to draw the heat from him. Taking, without giving. “I will stay here,” she replied. “You have given me your cloak, a generous gift. Will you not freeze, on the way back to the witch-men?”

“It somewhat depends on how far I have to travel,” Jaskier admitted, before stopping himself short. He hadn’t intended to be so candid. “How close are we from the castle, just out of interest?”

Curiously, Zaklina smiled at his words. He became aware of her scent, the sharpness of rust mixed with mellow earth. “Come closer. Let me whisper in your ear.”

Jaskier froze, finally worming free of her icy grip. “Uh… Why?” 

His hand felt as it it would drop off at any moment. He knew he shouldn’t have taken off his glove, and damned his own rashness. He could barely afford to lose his extremities to frostbite, especially as a man who gave so much pleasure to others with the dexterity of his fingers.

She closed the distance herself, hovering so close that Jaskier could feel her breath upon his cheek. “I want to thank you for your generous gift, nothing more.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier replied, gulping as her equally generous bosom pressed against his chest. “But really, it’s not necessary. I’m not looking for that kind of gratitude right now. You can thank me with directions to the castle, and I will be satisfied.”

Zaklina narrowed her eyes. “You don’t lay with women?”

“I do.” Jaskier leant backwards, trying to regain some semblance of control and instead feeling like a chaste maid warding off an indecent attack. “Believe me, I most certainly do. But not right now.” He paused, uncomfortably. “So, what direction should I walk? Northeast, perhaps.”

“Oh.” Zaklina moved in perfect synchronicity with Jaskier’s retreat, losing no ground. She loomed over him, her eyes glimmering in an almost predatory fashion. She pressed the palm of her hand against Jaskier’s cheek. “I understand now. Such a bold fawn you are, to make your bed amongst a den of wolves.” Her fingertips ghosted across his skin, radiating a tingling frost. “You offer your heart, even though they will rend it to a bloody pulp and fight each other for the scraps. I only want a taste, dear fawn. A few drops, nothing more.”

Jaskier took a deep breath, and steeled his nerves. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said, lifting his hand to fend off her advance.

He pressed his palm against her shoulder and shoved, but she didn’t move an inch. Trying again, he lifted his stabilising hand from the stone step and thrust it toward her chest, inadvertantly grasping her breast as he tried to force her away.

“Oh, Jaskier!” She cried teasingly, her eyes glimmering with mischief as she pushed him backward onto the bare stone.

All of a sudden he felt flushed, almost overheated. He was suddenly aware of the curves of her body as she enfolded him, her hair a dark curtain around his face. Her soft voluptuousness was overwhelming. His body, forever the betrayer, was rousing to her proximity in the most uncomfortable way.

“Stop,” he begged, knowing that soon he wouldn’t have the will to protest.

“I won’t tell the witch-men if you don’t,” she said. “Please, my fawn. I’m so cold, while you burn like the sun itself. Keep me warm, for just a moment.”

Zaklina’s lips brushed against the bare skin of his throat, a soft kiss. Her lips were cool, and left a prickling cold that deepened into a piercing sting.

He should have run away as soon as he first saw her, and let the world damn him as a coward. Oh, why didn’t he run?

Jaskier closed his eyes as he shuddered, his body growing heavy. He was so weak, too weak to fight.

The pain enveloped him, and the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have found that promising a timeframe on updates is not very helpful, so I will simply say that I am determined to get this story finished as soon as I can. I'm hoping to do a novel this November (something new, and porny, and very werewolfy), and it would be nice to get everything completed before then.
> 
> I do however have the entire story plotted out, and if my brain cooperates I should manage to get it all down on the page sooner or later.
> 
> Also, I am very sorry for introducing an original character. But stick with me, it's necessary.
> 
> Thank you for reading, if you are still reading. I love you.


	13. Chapter 13

Geralt squinted, grimacing with concentration as he stabbed the needle through the layers of tanned hide. He wound the strand of sinew around the sharp sliver of metal, and tugged the needle free to pull the thread into a knot. Exhaling a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, Geralt admired his handiwork.

The crude leather jerkin was beginning to take shape. Patchworked from scraps of hide he had begged from the other Witchers, it was roughly fashioned. But he knew it would be better-fitting than Ciri’s current outfit. He had used her as his reluctant tailor’s dummy for much of the afternoon, until she grew tired of being pricked by pins and he sent her away to practice her budding Witcher skills.

He set the unfinished garment down on the bed beside him and rubbed his aching eyes with his fingertips. He had been sewing for hours, and this was a strain even Witcher vision couldn’t handle. Geralt sighed, realising that the dusk-light in the room was fading. Normally Jaskier would have already returned from his day’s adventures to change his outfit for dinner like the great peacock he was. Something wasn’t right.

As if responding to his sense of unease, Geralt heard a high wailing noise coming from the hallway. It was Ciri.

Geralt leapt to his feet. Holding his breath as if it would somehow stall time and give him a chance to reach his ward before disaster occurred, he charged out into the hallway. He kicked open the door to Ciri’s room, flinging it back against the stone wall with a massive thud.

Ciri lay on the floor of her room, surrounded by a circle of candles. Curled on her side, her hands were clutched around her face as she wept.

His eyes wild, Geralt rushed to her side and grasped her shoulder. “Ciri, what’s wrong?”

“Uncle Vesemir said I was no good at meditation, and…” She sobbed, her voice near incomprehensible with emotion. “I thought I would practice. But I must have fallen asleep. What I saw… It was terrible.”

Geralt took a deep breath. They had tried without success to curb Ciri’s bad dreams in the time she had been resident here at Kaer Morhen. He knew the dreams were partially borne of the trauma she had suffered during her flight from Cintra, but there was something else. Some sort of divination, an ability to delve into Chaos and pull out the secrets that swirled within it. “What did you dream of?” He asked.

“You won’t believe me,” she wailed, trying in vain to sniffle away her tears. She hated to be seen as vulnerable, a relic of her upbringing in the court of the Lioness of Cintra.

“You might be surprised,” Geralt replied, smoothing her hair in what he hoped was a comforting way. He was not practiced at dealing with crying women. “Ciri, what did you dream?”

“I saw Jaskier,” she started, her voice hitching as she spoke. “He was lying on a stone slab, and there was rubble and snow all around. There was a woman there, holding him down. She was hurting him, Geralt.”

Geralt’s stomach churned, a pure and visceral reaction to the fear he saw on Ciri’s face. “Did you see…”

“No, I didn’t see.” Ciri interrupted, frantic. “I didn’t see what she was doing to him. But I knew it was Jaskier. I could hear him crying, and he begged her to stop. She just laughed. Then he stopped moving.” She grabbed at Geralt’s arm, her voice cracking. “What if he’s dead, Geralt? What if he’s hurt, and he’s out there all alone?”

Geralt took a deep breath, pushing down the emotions that urged him to charge blindly into the frozen wilderness without plans or direction. Even if Ciri had seen truly, he didn’t know where to start looking. “Did you recognise the place?” He asked urgently, pulling Ciri to her feet. He had best get his boots on, at least.

Ciri shook her head, clutching at him as he led her into the hallway. “It was a ruined building, overgrown with vines. The walls were high, and the stones…” She struggled to remember. “The stones were the same as Kaer Morhen. Large blocks, and old. Built the same way as the castle.”

Geralt grunted in approval, thankful for the clues. The place had to be close. There were a number of towers and outbuildings dotting the landscape around Kaer Morhen, but at least this narrowed the search radius. He pushed open his chamber door and ventured inside, leaving Ciri to stand nervously in the doorway. “Did you see the moon?” He asked, glancing up at the small window high in the wall. If the moon in her vision was high in the sky, they may still have time.

“It was overcast,” Ciri replied, as Geralt pulled on his boots. “I couldn’t see over the walls, but it was very dark.”

The Witcher scowled. Her words gave him hope, just enough to cling to. The moonlight could have been blocked by an overhanging structure, or perhaps it was later in the evening. It may have even been another night, a premonition of future events. “Come on,” he said, getting to his feet. “We’ll rally the others.”

The walk down to the great hall was brisk and tense, Ciri tripping over her feet as she tried to keep pace with Geralt. He could hear the intensity of her heartbeat, telegraphing her distress without the need for words. Her breathing was harsh and laboured, as if she were fighting tears.

They emerged into the brightness of the vaulted, imposing chamber and stopped short in the doorway. Ciri exhaled sharply, all the tension in her body releasing.

Lambert and Eskel were seated at the large table with Jaskier nestled between them, clearly still alive and well. The other Witchers were banging their fists rhythmically against the wooden surface as Jaskier drained his tankard of beer. He finished with a flourish, eliciting a cheer.

“Jaskier!” cried Ciri, releasing her hold on Geralt’s hand as she dashed across the room toward the bard. Looking up at the swiftly approaching girl, Jaskier broke into a grin and stood. He gathered her up in a tight hug, lifting her off the ground as she clung to him.

“Now, that’s a greeting,” said Jaskier, setting the princess back on her feet. He pouted when he saw the redness of her eyes, the streaks of moisture upon her cheeks. “Oh, poppet. What’s wrong?”

Geralt moved into the firelight, studying Jaskier closely. “Ciri had a vision about you,” he said. 

“Nothing bad, I hope.” Jaskier winked at Ciri. “Never fear, I’m still in one piece.”

Jaskier’s hair was messy and matted to his scalp, but apart from that he looked unusually formal. He had fastened the buttons of his doublet all the way up, the collar standing tall and stiff. There was a small stain on the dark green brocade. Geralt moved closer, keenly aware of Jaskier’s unconscious step backward as he approached.

“What happened?” Geralt asked lightly, and Jaskier raised his hand to the top of his head. 

“Ah,” the bard replied. “Yes. I tangled briefly with a bat, in the woods.” He displayed the small smear of blood on his fingertips from the wounds on his scalp. “A bit of a flap. Its talons got caught in my hair. I fended it off, of course.”

“Of course,” Geralt replied. “Come here, let me take a look.”

Reluctantly, Jaskier allowed Geralt to examine the small lacerations on the crown of his head. They were superficial, nothing to worry about.

Geralt’s fingers carded through Jaskier’s hair, tracing a path behind his ear to his neckline. Jaskier stiffened as Geralt peeled his collar back. “Ah, Geralt…”

There was a strip of ragged cloth tied around his throat, concealed beneath his upturned collar. Torn from his own shirt, it seemed. The linen was soaked in blood, stiff and dark.

“A bat did this?” Geralt asked, his words coming out a lot more menacing than he had intended.

Underneath the makeshift bandage, there was a short and ragged slice across Jaskier’s neck. It began to slowly ooze with dark venous blood as the pressure of the cloth was released, and Jaskier hissed with pain. “Yes,” he said. “A fucking bat, Geralt. It’s nothing.”

“Pull that stick out of your arse, Wolf.” Lambert called out. “It’s only a scratch. We added a draught of thorn-apple to his beer, and Coën is fetching some prickly nightshade leaves for a dressing.”

Geralt shot a dark look at the other Witcher. “Stay the fuck out of this, Lambert,” he growled.

“No, Geralt. Perhaps you should stay out of this for once.” Jaskier chastised him, pulling himself out of Geralt’s grasp with his hand clutched over the open wound. “We were doing perfectly fine until you charged in and started shouting.”

Ciri tugged on Geralt’s shirt to command his attention. Her expression was pleading. “Geralt,” she said in a small voice. “I want to help.”

She hadn’t said it aloud, but there was something in her eyes begging him to stand down. She was right. There was no sense in starting a fight over a random encounter with the local wildlife. He nodded at her, a wordless promise to keep the peace. “I’ll need some witch-hazel, it’ll help stop the bleeding. Find Coën, he’ll show you the right leaves to pick.”

Satisfied with her mission, Ciri scurried off toward the garden to find the young Griffin. Geralt sighed, turning back to Jaskier. The bard was fiddling with the buttons of his collar, trying to refasten it to staunch the flow of blood and only succeeding in staining the brocade further. “I’m sorry,” Geralt offered. “We were worried about you. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Jaskier looked back at him, his expression weary. “It was just a mostly harmless, if slightly pointy bat. You can’t protect me from every evil in these woods, Geralt. What would you do, tie me to the bed?”

Eskel laughed at the suggestion and Lambert hushed him, attentive to the conversation.

“Not entirely harmless,” Geralt offered, even though it was a weak excuse. “The bat was likely rabid. Didn’t they tell you why they put thorn-apple in your beer?”

Jaskier’s face fell. “Hold on. Rabies? Nobody said a thing about rabies.”

Geralt moved over to the table, pouring himself a tankard of beer as he sat opposite the other Witchers. He pulled out the chair beside him. “You’ll be fine,” he offered. “Now sit, so we can dress the wounds.”

Jaskier sat down, looking pale and slightly ill. Eskel, still chuckling, poured a fresh tankard and set it in front of the bard. “This is a rare treat, both of you in the same place at once.”

Geralt hummed. “A drink or two wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps Jaskier can entertain us with tales of his thrilling encounter with a flying rat.”

Jaskier sneered half-heartedly at him. “Oh, go on and laugh. I’m not a trained thug like you lot. My thuggery is purely amateur in nature.”

Eskel grinned. “Maybe next time you can start a brawl with a squirrel. That would be closer to your skill level.”

Geralt was studying Jaskier carefully, listening to the beat of his heart, watching the movement of his eyes. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite figure out what. “In the woods, you said?”

Jaskier waved his hand vaguely, sipping his beer. “Down the valley a bit, I couldn’t say where.”

“Near the old signal tower?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier gave him a curious look. “I wouldn’t have the foggiest,” he answered. “Geralt, why do I get the feeling that you’re interrogating me?”

“What about the woman?” Geralt pressed, hoping to catch him off guard. He was met with a blank stare.

“I beg your pardon?” Jaskier replied, confused. “Sorry, what woman are we talking about?”

“There’s a woman?” Eskel asked. “Nobody told me there were women around here.”

The tension was broken as Ciri and Coën arrived. Ciri was carrying a bundle of leaves in both hands, and Coën carried a handful of rags and a bottle of some murky alcohol.

“Did you ask him about the woman?” Ciri asked Geralt in a whisper, as she deposited her frost-speckled bounty on the tabletop.

“Geralt, a word?” Lambert interjected, getting to his feet. He scowled as Geralt hesitated. “Coën and Ciri can handle the dressing.”

Geralt grunted in reluctant assent, getting up from his seat to follow Lambert across the room.

Once they were safely ensconced in a corner away from the hearing of the humans, Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got something to say, Lambert? Out with it.”

Lambert glanced over at Jaskier, who was being avidly questioned by the young princess. “I don’t know what fantasies you’ve conjured up, but I believe your bard. Frankly I’m a little surprised you’d take him to task over it. I always knew you would drive him away, but never thought it would be so quickly.”

Geralt glared at him, exhaling sharply through his nose. Lambert had always been rude and annoying, but there was something about his behaviour toward Jaskier that rendered him utterly intolerable. “I only care about his wellbeing,” he replied. “Ciri had a vision that he was in danger, and damned if I’ll just ignore it.”

Lambert smiled. “He’s a grown man, Wolf. I’m not saying I would shed a tear if he cast you aside, but it pains me to see such pathetic behaviour. Mind my words, you keep him on too tight a leash and he’ll break himself free.” He chuckled, mischievous. “Unless of course he’s into that.”

Behind them, Geralt heard a clatter as Jaskier got up from the table. He was wavering on his feet, a clear sign that the thorn-apple in his drink had taken hold. At least his throat was properly dressed now, bound in a clean cloth.

Both of the Witchers watched him stumble away, with Ciri in tow.

“Do you want my advice, Geralt?” Lambert asked, leaning against the wall.

“No,” said Geralt brusquely. He could trust the other Wolves with a great many things, but he wasn’t willing to believe a word Lambert said if Jaskier was involved.

“You’re going to get it regardless,” Lambert replied. “Your bard is a social creature. He wants to be part of things. But the way you’ve been behaving, keeping that separation between the two of you and the rest of us? You’re splitting him in half, and not in the fun way.”

“Fuck off,” Geralt said, although he had an inkling that Lambert was at least partially right. He had kept his distance. A tinge of jealousy, perhaps, and greed. Jaskier and he, they belonged to each other. They had something that was different from the brusque fraternity he shared with the other Witchers of the Wolf School. Something softer, more intimate. Something that didn’t reek of monster guts, blood and crotch sweat. He was afraid that if he confided in Lambert or Eskel, would he grow to be ashamed of what he got up to at night. They certainly seemed accepting, and he was learning more every day about Lambert’s similar tastes, but it was still far beyond their usual conversational range. How could he sit and share a drink with his brothers if they knew he would be buried balls deep in another man’s arse within the hour?

“Eskel misses you, you grumpy old shit.” Lambert offered. “And to tell the truth, I do too.”

Geralt studied him with a scowl. 

“Believe me, or don’t.” Lambert clapped him on the shoulder, his hand lingering briefly before he started his walk back to the table. “But for now, come and drink your beer. Then you can talk to the boy. He’ll tell you.”

Back in the bright heart of the great hall, Eskel was laughing at a joke Coën had told. Vesemir emerged from the kitchen with a platter of cheese and walnuts. The fire crackled merrily, a mighty stack of glowing logs.

Geralt watched Lambert walk away. He didn’t really look forward to coming up with an apology for Jaskier, so it wouldn’t hurt to linger a little while longer. One drink, he told himself. Just one. He cleared his throat and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another day, another spate of google research about home remedies for rabies.
> 
> thank you to anyone still reading. i appreciate you immensely. <3


	14. Chapter 14

The bed, flimsy old thing that it was, creaked under Geralt’s weight as he clambered in effortfully. Jaskier, who had been floating in a hazy and dreamless place beyond sleep, was roused by the feeling of the Witcher’s firmly muscled body pressing against him.  
“A bit late,” Jaskier mumbled, as Geralt tried to make himself comfortable. 

Geralt only grunted, but it seemed like there were some attempted words within the incoherent noise.

“What was that?” Jaskier found himself becoming more and more irritatingly awake as Geralt shifted against him. “I’m glad you’ve decided to grace me with your glorious grunts, but I’d much prefer if you attempted to speak the common tongue.”

Geralt sighed, throwing out his arm and almost crushing Jaskier in the process. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, his words slurring. Gods, was he drunk?

“A little constructive criticism then,” Jaskier replied. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

Geralt turned his head toward Jaskier, or at least the bard assumed. The room was as black as pitch, and he only had the tickle of Geralt’s breath against his face to provide a clue. “How are you?”

Jaskier considered turning his back and ignoring the Witcher, however he was already situated quite firmly between Geralt’s body and the wall. No escape. “Do you even care?”

Geralt made a noise of displeasure. Jaskier knew this sound very well, as it was the one he always heard when he refused to put up with the Witcher’s bullshit. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, then.” Geralt mumbled.

“No, we’ll talk about it now,” Jaskier insisted. “We’re crammed in between two unpleasant alternatives, much as I’m currently crammed between your ridiculous physique and the wall.”

Geralt shuffled away, allowing the bard a little more space to breathe. “Go on,” he said.

Jaskier took a deep breath, staring up into the darkness. “Ciri told me about her dream, and I know what you were trying to do back there. Either you think me an absolute fool for being overpowered by a mere bat, or you think me a liar using this embarrassing story to cover up more grievous misdeeds. So, what is it?”

Geralt left him in suspense for a moment too long. “The bats get big in these parts,” he offered.

“So, I’m a fool.”

Geralt offered him a grunt of contrition. “Look,” he said, as if he had been working his way up to it. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Jaskier appreciated the attempt at an apology, but it made him feel slightly guilty. To be honest, he didn’t rightly remember everything that had happened before he stumbled back to the keep. The bat was a single point of clarity, but the rest of the details were foggy. Like a bad dream, akin to the others that had plagued him since their arrival. Perhaps he had been overly defensive. “I’ve put up with your gruff nonsense for years, I can handle it.”

Geralt reached out, laying one of his giant clammy hands on Jaskier’s face. Obviously he could see the bard clearly, even though Jaskier was sightless. The palm grazed his cheek, moving down toward his throat. The fingers trailed across the fabric of the bandage that bound his wound. “Really, though…” Geralt’s voice was hushed. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he said, and he could hear the exhaustion in his own voice. “A little sore. Mildly humiliated, but no more than usual.”

“I had no right to question you,” Geralt said, and damn him - it sounded genuine. “I only wanted to protect you.”

“I don’t remember meeting a woman this evening,” Jaskier replied. “And after what Ciri told me, you can be sure that I’d run far away if I do happen to see one.”

“And here I thought you only ran toward women, not away from them.” Geralt’s breath smelled of beer, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “You wouldn’t need to run away if you knew how to fight.”

Jaskier found himself annoyed at Geralt’s words. He didn’t consider himself to be a prideful man, but the evening had taken a toll on his self-esteem. “I’m not a child, Geralt. I can take care of myself.”

Geralt snorted, or perhaps he laughed. “We’ll start training in the morning. Get some sleep, Jaskier.”

Jaskier sighed. “I would if I could. I’m feeling awfully hot, and you’re not helping. Why do you always have to take up all the space in the bed?”

Geralt rolled onto his side. “You’re usually the one who lays claim to all the lands upon the mattress,” he retorted. “Also, you snore.”

“I…” Jaskier was shocked. “Take that back, you git. I do not snore.” He reached out under the blankets and slapped Geralt on the bare arse, harder than expected. He hadn’t meant to do it, but his impulse control was somewhat impaired. Perhaps he was rabid, after all. Or, perhaps it was the thorn-apple the other Witchers had put into his drink.

Geralt chuckled. “So you do have some fight in you, after all. Perhaps I can train you to hit harder.”

Without really thinking about it, Jaskier lunged toward Geralt and threw an arm around his neck, squeezing as tightly as he could.

Geralt raised his hands to grasp at Jaskier’s arm, wriggling in his grasp as he continued laughing. Every peal of amusement fueled Jaskier’s irritation more. “Be still, old man. You’re making the whole bed shake. Are you drunk, or just determined to piss me off?”

After all the playful struggling, Jaskier became aware that Geralt’s bare buttocks were pressed against his groin, which was conveniently also devoid of clothing. He had shucked his breeches and shirt when Ciri left for bed, feeling overheated and restricted by the layers of fabric against his skin.

“Are you angry that I stayed to drink with Lambert and Eskel?” Geralt asked, still refusing to remain still. His arse shifted against Jaskier’s prick, rousing it from its slumber.

“No, I’m glad you’ve decided to stop being such a hermit. Perhaps next you’ll learn to see reason, and stop worrying so much about me.”

“Perhaps if you’d let me teach you how to fight, I’d not have to worry about the beasts in the woods.”

“What few there are after your recent rampages,” Jaskier commented. “Why are you so obsessed with teaching me to fight?”

“I thought it would be fun to tan your hide in front of my brethren,” Geralt replied. “Make you see some sense.”

Jaskier hissed, torn between the building pleasure and his irritation at Geralt. “I thought you were supposed to be apologising to me.”

“I have apologised, Jaskier. I don’t know what more you want.”

Jaskier was trying very hard to be angry at Geralt, but it was difficult when the Witcher insisted on grinding against him like this. His buttocks were as firm and meaty as a pair Yuletide hams, and just as tempting. Fine. If this was what he wanted, he would get it. 

Jaskier released his grip on Geralt’s neck, pressing himself fully against the other man’s body. “Now what could I possibly want from you?” Jaskier slid his engorged cock up between Geralt’s cheeks, his eyes squeezing shut at the delicious friction. Lubricated just enough with pre-cum, and the clammy sweat of Geralt’s body. “Take one guess.”

Geralt groaned, and Jaskier heard the rustle of his hands moving beneath the covers. Jaskier grabbed him by the wrist, leaning over to whisper harshly in his ear. “Don’t you dare touch yourself, Geralt. You can ‘tan my hide’ to your satisfaction tomorrow. But tonight is mine, not yours. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Geralt replied, the levity in his voice replaced with seriousness. Deep, lustful. “Whatever you want.”

Grasping his sweat-slick length, he rubbed it once more along Geralt’s perineum, the skin both taut and soft at once. Judging it slippery enough, he pressed himself against Geralt’s rim and pushed slowly in. Gods, so fucking tight.

Geralt reached behind him, grasping blindly and finding Jaskier’s thigh. He clutched tightly with a bruising pressure, urging the bard to go deeper.

“Whatever I want,” Jaskier reminded him, thrusting with shallow, teasing strokes. A little more each time, inch by painstaking inch. He dug his fingers into Geralt’s wrist, feeling his pulse quicken. The Witcher could overpower him in an instant, but he didn’t. He belonged to Jaskier tonight, and he accepted it. An exquisite surrender.

Jaskier began to slide more freely inside Geralt, and braced himself against the bed to set a brisker pace. Geralt tilted his backside to offer him greater access, and he took it. He thrust roughly, making them both groan.

“So needy, old man.” Jaskier said, his voice cracking. He felt the sweat drip off his body, the damp sheets beneath him. He bent over Geralt’s body, kissing the salt from his skin. “How would you have spent your time, if you hadn’t brought me here for the winter? Making love to your own palm in the dark of night? Dreaming of me, or another?”

“You,” said Geralt, his voice a low rumble against Jaskier’s chest. “Always you. The ripe peach of your arse. Your cock. The way you feel underneath me.”

“How do I feel on top of you, Geralt?” Jaskier gave another harsh thrust, forcing a gasp from the Witcher’s lungs.

“Beyond words,” Geralt moaned. “Please, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s legs were already beginning to cramp from the effort of his punishing pace, but he didn’t allow himself to slow. The head of his prick hammered against Geralt’s prostate with every erratic stroke, and in the cacophany of pleasure that rung inside his head he barely heard Geralt’s pained moan as the Witcher came, his untouched cock jerking and spurting all over the mattress. He felt it, though. The instinctive clench around his invading presence, a culminating tightness that caused him to lose his last shred of self control. Jaskier cried out, burying himself deep into the Witcher as his climax hit. Holding the man he loved tightly, ever so tightly, as every muscle in his body tensed. The darkness in his head turned to the purest white, his body flooding with endorphins.

And then, the release.

Breathing heavily, clinging to Geralt’s sweaty back like a deranged beast, Jaskier slowly regained awareness of the real world. He flopped back against the bed, his legs twitching and tingling. Oversensitive, exhausted.  
“I’m sorry,” said Geralt finally. His voice sounded a thousand miles away. 

Jaskier couldn’t even open his mouth to respond, so sated was he. Geralt leaned over him, planting a tender kiss upon his lips, and he couldn’t do more than smile.

If he could have spoken, he would have accepted Geralt’s apology. He loved the man far too much to let such a spat divide them.

Jaskier closed his eyes as Geralt settled down beside him, his faithful protector, his warrior wolf. An unfamiliar voice spoke inside his head, a memory he could not place. _Such a bold fawn you are, to make your bed amongst a den of wolves._

Jaskier didn’t know who had spoken these words to him, but the unease that accompanied them remained until he slipped into sleep, lulled by Geralt’s steady heartbeat against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been trying to edit this one for too long so i thought i'd rather put it out there than let it stagnate. 
> 
> little bit of top jaskier action for you, because i can not envision a world in which jaskier doesn't give as good as he gets. 
> 
> thank you for reading, if you're still reading. i love you.


End file.
